The year 2014 marked twenty-five years since Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” to describe how social realities such as “class” or “race” should not be analyzed in isolation, but instead be combined in order to understand the complexity of a particular praxis. Building upon previous work by scholar-activists Deborah King, The Combahee River Collective, Gloria Joseph and Jill Lewis, as well as Cherrie Moraga and Gloria Anzaldúa’s 1981 anthology This Bridge Called My Back, among others, Crenshaw proposed that: “Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated.”  While Crenshaw may have been speaking particularly of the lived experience of Black women and ‘mainstream’ feminism in the United States, the intersectional approach proposed by Crenshaw has been adopted by many disciplines and groups in order to analyze the junctures at which complex identities are contested and staged.

This interrogation of political, social, and economic systems is particularly salient today, as the past decade has seen a wave of global socio-political and economic changes punctuated by the specter of ideologically driven acts of violence and “The War on Terror.” We are witnessing geopolitical conflict on a local as well as international scale, intensified by rising wealth disparities, mass migrations, crippling austerity measures, repression of dissent, and increasingly controlled borders.  These borders—at once more porous and more visible–may be nationally designated or internal, as increasing division and strife in civil societies mirrors longstanding geopolitical tensions. These events make evident the centrality of class and to any discussion on the sweeping changes taking place in the global political landscape, as well as the struggle to both emerge from and generate new discourses from lingering legacies of colonialism and race/gender stratification. Major developments that shaped the last year, such as unrest in Ferguson in the United States and the resulting #BlackLivesMatter movement, the missing 43 students of Ayotztinapa, the spread and media coverage of the Ebola virus, the assault on Gaza, and the spread of ISIS, further illustrate the need to analyze events by focusing on layered experiences of power and marginalization. Indeed, the point of departure and means of articulation do not operate in isolation from social structures such as the economy, a fact that underscores the need for continued interdisciplinary and intersectional research.

The pieces in the Fall/Winter Intersectionality, Class, & (De)Colonial Praxis issue draw from varying regions, disciplines, and languages, but all seek to tease out how “intersectionality” is deployed in contexts where intersections—points of meeting, points of encounter—frequently reveal sites of slippage and tension. Maurício Hashizume’s “Lições a partir da experiência do movimento katarista da Bolívia” delves into the Katarista movement in Bolivia, reminding us of indigeneity’s uneasy role within postcolonial studies. Virginie Privas-Breauté’s “Au Carrefour du didactisme brechtien et de la résistance post-coloniale : Protestants (2004) de Robert Welch” further interrogates ideas of postcoloniality as a North-South phenomenon by analyzing Northern Ireland as a (post)colonial site of enunciation. Zachary Price’s timely “Economies of Enjoyment and Terror in 12 Years a Slave and Django Unchained” employs visual and critical race analysis to recent films that seek to illuminate the present by analyzing the past, while Rebecca Galemba’s “Mexico’s Border (In)Security” study brings stark reality to abstract debates on immigration and border crossings. Intersectionality’s possibilities within Francophone Arab feminist studies are explored in Ines Horchani’s “Intersectionnalité et feminismes arabes,” and in turn the invisibility of political actors who do not align neatly within the sociopolitical imaginary in Puerto Rico is examined and re-envisioned by Guillermo Rebollo Gil’s piece “Aguafiestas: Marginalidad y Protesta en Puerto Rico.”

“This Borderland Called My Sexuality: Excavating Queer Nightlife of the American Southwest Through the Lens of Intersectionality” by Kris Hernandez probes the claiming of queer sexual identity among Latinos in the US border space of El Paso, and how race, class, and sexual identifications problematize such (be)longings , while Alissa Simon’s “Mythology, Taboo, and Cultural Identity in Elif Shafak’s The Bastard of Istanbul” explores how the domestic realm and its associated female body both shape and defy the contours of societal expectations, and Cristina Onesta’s “Mai 68 au service de l’interdiscursivité médiatique : entre mémoire révolutionnaire et mémoire discursive. Deux approches interdisciplinaires : lexiculture et mots événements,” brings us back to 1968, a year of massive cultural shifts whose outcomes are frequently invoked and contested today. These and other arts and editorial pieces, such as Annie Mcneill Gibson’s vignettes and photo essay on mythologies and changes surrounding Cuba from a foreigner’s perspective, Anna Stielau’s observations on the Dakar Biennale, and Maheen Hyder’s poetry on ‘home’ as site of both salvation and ruin, explore how intersectionality has been built on, applied, and questioned in a contemporary world of crossings: the intersection is not the destination, but the starting point.

As we look back at 25 years of intersectionality, and in spite of the growing criticism of the concept itself, it is above all important to look at how scholars and organizers around the world are employing an intersectional spirit in their analysis and praxis. Even as the concept of intersectionality faces increasing pressure from the academy and hegemonic liberal feminism and is at risk of losing its radical potential, it is clear that it continues to be used by countless critical thinkers. Indeed one way of countering its co-optation is by continuing to use the concept in radical and groundbreaking ways. The aim of this issue is to present some of the research that is doing just that.

The post Letter from the Editors: “Intersectionality, Class, and (De)Colonial Praxis” appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

En effet, dans les cercles intellectuels comme dans les rues européennes, peu de noms de féministes arabes sont connus. Qui se souvient du nom de la journaliste libanaise Rose al-Yussuf (1898-1958) ? de l’égyptienne Houda Cha’rawi (1879-1947) ? de la tunisienne Bchira Ben Mrad (1909-1993) ? Et pourquoi les écrits féministes de Tahar Haddâd (1899-1935) sont-ils si peu traduits et si peu diffusés en Europe ? Nous constatons aujourd’hui cette invisibilité flagrante du féminisme arabe, sans en connaître les raisons profondes. Les féministes contemporaines sont un peu plus connues, telle Fatima Mernissi très active dans l’ensemble du Monde arabe, ainsi qu’en Europe. Mais tandis que le féminisme occidental (européen et nord-américain) s’est constitué comme une entité complexe, le féminisme arabe semble ne pas avoir existé hier, et peiner à exister aujourd’hui.

Kimberlé Crenshaw peut nous aider à comprendre ce phénomène d’invisibilité d’un féminisme non-occidental. Tout d’abord parce qu’elle a contribué à faire connaître les travaux de Gloria Hull, Patricia Bell et Barbara Smith et en particulier leur ouvrage All Women are White, all the Blacks are Men[2]. Ce titre énonce un préjugé qui explique pourquoi les femmes afro-américaines ont été d’emblée exclues des mouvements féministes. Et ce préjugé peut aujourd’hui s’appliquer aux sociétés arabo-musulmanes vues d’Europe et s’énoncer de la sorte : Toutes les femmes sont occidentales ; tous les Arabes, tous les Musulmans sont des hommes. Ainsi, en 2014, le féminisme mondial reste un féminisme foncièrement occidental, qui accepte malaisément d’inclure d’autres féminismes comme le féminisme arabe ou le féminisme musulman. C’est dire à quel point les découvertes de Kimberlé Crenshaw sont d’actualité.

Quelle est la réception effective de l’œuvre de Crenshaw dans le monde arabo-musulman contemporain ? Dans quels domaines l’intersectionnalité s’y applique-t-elle particulièrement ? Et comment certains concepts y sont discutés, sans que l’ensemble de la méthode initiée par Crenshaw ne soit remis en cause ?

Intersectionnalité et sociétés

La réception de l’œuvre de Kimberlé Crenshaw dans le monde arabo-musulman est contrastée. Non encore traduite à ce jour en langue arabe, elle se trouve assez bien connue des universitaires des pays anglophones (notamment l’Egypte) mais très peu connue dans les pays francophones (comme l’Algérie). On peut donc parler ici d’une réception limitée, l’œuvre de Crenshaw ayant encore trop peu d’impact direct sur les sociétés arabo-musulmanes. Pourtant, la notion d’intersectionnalité ouvre un domaine de recherche fort utile dans des sociétés qui peinent parfois à penser leur hétérogénéité. L’ouverture prochaine de départements d’Etudes féminines (comme à l’Université de Tunis) devrait pallier ce manque, et permettre aux théories féministes non-occidentales d’être plus visibles.

Le cas de l’Egypte, où l’œuvre de Kimberlé Crenshaw est la plus reconnue dans le Monde arabe, est une exception : il s’agit d’un pays dont l’élite est parfaitement anglophone, et il s’agit du pays de Nawal Saadawî, figure de proue du féminisme arabe, longtemps exilée aux USA. Ainsi, le féminisme arabe devient visible dès lors qu’il se trouve porté par une figure internationale, maîtrisant la langue de l’autre (ici, la langue anglaise) et vivant dans le pays de l’autre (ici, les USA). Autrement dit, le féminisme de Saadawî a acquis une forme grandissante de visibilité à mesure qu’il s’occidentalisait. Cette visibilité ne réduit cependant pas l’invisibilité de tous les autres féminismes du Monde arabo-musulman, bien qu’il en encourage l’émergence.

L’invisibilité des féminismes du Monde arabo-musulman tient donc peut-être à la langue. Enoncées en langue anglaise, les théories de Nawal Saadawi rencontrent celles de Kimberlé Crenshaw, en Egypte, ou aux USA. Nawal Saadawî s’intéresse elle aussi à ce point de croisement aveugle entre diverses catégories : femmes, pauvres, malades, exploitées, emprisonnées. En tant que médecin, elle soigne ces patientes dont l’existence est niée par la société, et elle décrit leur parcours, parfois en s’identifiant très fortement à elles[3]. Il nous faut noter que les femmes auxquelles s’intéresse Nawal Saadawî sont opprimées par la société dans laquelle elles vivent, et non par l’extérieur (c’est-à-dire l’Occident). Elles peuvent dès lors plus facilement susciter l’empathie de femmes occidentales, qui, elles non plus, ne supportent pas la dictature, ni les dérives du patriarcat…

La solidarité s’avère plus compliquée lorsque les femmes qu’il s’agit de soutenir ne correspondant pas au prototype de la femme occidentale, par exemple lorsqu’elles sont voilées, et semblent soumises. Kimberlé Crenshaw avait vu juste en parlant de « the centrality of white female experience in the conceptualization of gender discrimitation[4]». A sa suite, Elsa Dorlin a montré comment « les [premières] associations féministes se déchirent et se scindent sur la question perverse de la prééminence « légitime » des femmes et épouses « blanches » sur les Noirs et par conséquent sur les femmes « noires », excluant purement et simplement ces dernières de la catégorie « femmes[5]» ». Autrement dit, les femmes arabo-musulmanes non-occidentalisées ne seraient pas des femmes comme les autres. Certains propos rapportés et analysés par Elsa Dorlin, datant de plus d’un siècle, et s’appliquant aux femmes afro-américaines, rejoignent des propos circulant depuis une dizaine d’années en France et en Europe au sujet des femmes arabo-musulmanes. Par exemple, il y a plus d’un siècle, aux USA, la Présidente de la Fédération générale des clubs des femmes expliquait ainsi qu’elle ne pouvait accepter Mrs Lowe parmi ses membres : « Mrs Ruffin appartient à son propre peuple. Là, elle sera un leader et pourra faire beaucoup de bien, mais parmi nous elle ne peut que créer des problèmes[6]». Ce préjugé s’applique aujourd’hui à la femme de culture ou d’apparence arabo-musulmane en France, ou ailleurs en Europe. En tant que femme arabo-musulmane, elle se trouve renvoyée aux siens, tandis que les siens la renvoient à leur tour à sa condition de femme. Finalement, elle n’est jamais totalement elle-même : dans une communauté de femmes occidentales et féministes, la femme arabo-musulmane est d’abord perçue comme arabo-musulmane (a fortiori si elle est voilée) ; et dans la communauté arabo-musulmane, elle est perçue comme une femme, avec des droits et des devoirs spécifiques. Aucune de ces perceptions ne rend à cet individu (qui se trouve être une femme, de culture arabo-musulmane) toute son humanité.

De plus, il nous semble que la question du féminisme arabo-musulman s’articule avec la question post-coloniale. Elsa Dorlin cite d’ailleurs, en note, Edward Saïd[7]. Si les femmes africaines-américaines n’ont pas eu leur place dans les premiers mouvements féministes aux USA, c’était à cause du racisme. Et si les femmes arabo-musulmanes n’ont pas aujourd’hui leur place dans les mouvements féministes, c’est peut-être une conséquence de la colonisation et de l’orientalisme.

En effet, durant la colonisation, la femme arabo-musulmane était très présente dans l’imaginaire collectif français. En peinture comme en littérature, elle fut constamment représentée, puis très photographiée. Et l’on peut noter qu’elle était le plus souvent représentée assise ou allongée, nue et parée de bijoux. Or, il se trouve que les femmes arabo-musulmanes d’aujourd’hui, dans le Monde arabo-musulman comme en France, peuvent apparaître comme l’exact contraire de l’ « orientale » : les femmes voilées figurent une verticalité en marche, qui trouble et parfois effraie. L’image fréquemment utilisée pour exprimer le malaise ressenti devant des femmes entièrement voilées est celle de « fantôme ». Ainsi, tandis que la femme arabo-musulmane colonisée et orientalisée était couleurs et chair, la femme arabo-musulmane d’aujourd’hui paraît spectrale, insaisissable. Même lorsque ses prises de positions rejoignent celles des féministes occidentales, le voile creuse entre elles un fossé.

Mais le monde n’est pas binaire, et les fossés se creusent au sein même des sociétés arabo-musulmanes. L’intersectionnalité n’opère donc pas seulement entre ancien colonisateur et ancien colonisé, mais au cœur de toutes les sociétés, car toutes les sociétés de notre monde contiennent des éléments hétérogènes. Autrement dit, la question de la femme arabo-musulmane se pose aujourd’hui partout dans le monde, et le même paradoxe s’observe ici comme ailleurs : le voile la rend visible, mais inaudible, et le féminisme arabo-musulman semble ne pas exister, à moins d’être porté par des femmes arabo-musulmanes occidentalisées.

On voit de ce fait que les théories de Kimberlé Crenshaw permettent d’élucider des paradoxes très contemporains. La femme de culture arabo-musulmane vue d’Europe, et en particulier vue de France, pays de la laïcité, se retrouve à l’intersection de plusieurs catégories (sexuelles, sociales, historiques, économiques, culturelles) qui la rendent invisible. Elle sera tour à tour appréhendée comme arabe (non-européenne), ou comme musulmane (non-laïque), ou comme immigrée (même lorsqu’elle a la nationalité européenne), ou comme issue d’une ancienne colonie française, ou comme issue de tel milieu social… Mais son identité singulière, qui coïncide avec le point d’intersection de ces catégories plurielle, peine à être reconnue. Des rôles lui sont assignés, qui entravent sa connaissance de soi, et sa reconnaissance par autrui.

Ainsi, le passage semble étroit pour que les femmes arabo-musulmanes, et a fortiori les plus féministes d’entre elles, puissent se faire entendre et se défendre, tout en échappant à la fois au repli traditionaliste, à l’orientalisme latent, à l’occidentalisation forcée, au sexisme et au racisme.

Intersectionnalité et littératures post-coloniales

Cinq ans avant la parution de l’article de Kimberlé Crenshaw « Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race and Sex : A Black Feminist Critique of Antidiscrimination Doctrine, Feminist Theory, and Antiracist Politics » Alice Walker publiait la Couleur pourpre[8]. Dans ces deux textes fondateurs, l’un socio-juridique, l’autre romanesque, il est question des violences domestiques dont les femmes afro-américaines sont victimes. Cette coïncidence entre la parution d’un article scientifique et un roman, traitant de la même problématique, est intéressante. Elle révèle que parfois la littérature devance, ou rejoint la sociologie. En ce qui concerne la notion d’intersectionnalité, cette convergence semble remarquable dans les littératures issues du Monde arabe. On trouve cette problématique de l’invisibilité due à l’intersectionnalité dès 1945, date à laquelle Kateb Yacine commence à écrire Nedjma[9] dont le personnage se trouve être une femme, juive par sa mère, arabo-berbère par son père, nue dans une célèbre scène de bain, et finalement voilée, et errante. Quelle que soit la forme qu’elle prend, Nedjma ne parle pas. Elle est toutes les femmes que l’on veut, mais elle ne semble être personne. L’entrecroisement de sa judaïté, de son arabité, de sa féminité et de son statut de colonisé la font littéralement disparaître. Comme disparaissaient des statistiques les femmes afro-américaines battues sur le sort desquelles Kimberlé Crenshaw s’est penchée.

Après Kateb Yacine, d’autres écrivains ont continué à mettre en scène cette disparition des femmes arabo-musulmanes du champ de vision du féminisme humaniste, parmi lesquels Naguib Mahfouz, Assia Djebar, Hanan el-Cheikh, Fadhila Chabbi et, plus récemment Emna Belhaj Yahia. Dans son roman intitulé Jeux de rubans[10], Emna Belhaj Yahia s’interroge sur le voile en Tunisie. Elle rapporte ses pensées tandis qu’elle attend son tour chez l’épicier :

Je regarde les femmes auprès desquelles je fais la queue : nous ne sommes que deux à ne pas être voilées, c’est-à-dire à ne pas porter ce grand foulard qui enveloppe le cheveu et encadre le visage. Cela fait quelques années déjà qu’on commence à s’y habituer. Mais je suis tout de même à chaque fois surprise que cette nouvelle façon de s’habiller se répande autant et envahisse si vite le décor. Tout de suite, je me sens différente. Peut-être plus par les pensées qu’elle soulève en moi, que par le fait lui-même. (…) A les regarder de près, attelées comme tant d’autres aux tâches quotidiennes, ces femmes n’ont rien d’inquiétant dans le visage, rien d’agressif, à mon égard en tout cas, et ne manifestent aucune hostilité. Je revois à l’instant toutes celles qui leur ressemblent, que j’avais déjà remarquées bien des fois et qui, dans les quartiers populaires, ont sauté sur cet habit pour pouvoir exercer tranquillement leur métier d’aide-ménagère. Dans ces lieux-là, ce sont elles qui subviennent aux besoins de la famille[11].

Ici, une première raison de se voiler est explicitée : travailler, pouvoir aller et venir dans la rue, sans passer pour une prostituée. Mais la position de la narratrice est ébranlée lorsque son fils lui présente la jeune fille dont il est amoureux : étudiante, coquette, au caractère affirmé, et voilée. Le roman s’achève d’ailleurs sur une scène apocalyptique qui a tout d’une hallucination, et qui révèle l’immense perplexité de la narratrice :

[Mes enfants] se tiennent par la main et, derrière eux, il y a toute leur descendance, leurs enfants, petits-enfants, arrière-arrière-petits-enfants, qui avancent en dizaines de rangées correspondant à des dizaines de générations successives, de celles nées il y a plus d’un siècle à celles qui naîtront dans plus de cent ans. Mais, comme c’est curieux, elles se suivent dans un ordre singulier : une rangée où les femmes ont des foulards sur les cheveux, suivie d’une autre où elles ont les cheveux au vent, et ainsi de suite à l’infini, dans une alternance presque parfaite, vagues régulières, enlacées, exposant leurs différences comme si chaque rangée était une réplique à l’autre, comme si pour s’affirmer, elle avait décidé de marquer son opposition en reniant la tenue de celle qui l’a précédée. (…) C’est quoi, ce mystérieux manège ? Et pourquoi ce fétichisme d’un tissu sur la tête qu’on enlève, remet, retire de nouveau pour le remettre encore une fois, quelques temps après, et puis s’en défaire, et recommencer l’opération par la suite, tout au long des siècles ? Elles sont vraiment énigmatiques, les filles d’Eve, avec l’habillage de leurs corps, sur cette terre qui est la mienne ! J’aimerais les comprendre, mais je n’y arrive pas encore[12].

Ainsi, il y aurait autant de raisons de se voiler, que de ne pas se voiler. Les premières féministes arabes se voilaient pour aller travailler, ou pour participer aux assemblées politiques. Puis elles se sont dévoilées, pour être les égales des hommes. Aujourd’hui, les jeunes filles se voilent pour de multiples raisons : par réaction contre l’occidentalisation-laïcisation de leur culture, par réaction contre la nudité orientaliste, par réaction contre leurs parents, par désir de retrouver des racines identitaires, pour intégrer une communauté, pour retrouver une spiritualité, pour faire coïncider leur foi et leur apparence…

Pour Emna Belhaj Yahia, la plus commune de ces raisons serait une réaction par rapport à la génération précédente. Le résultat de toutes ces réactions en chaîne est une essentialisation de la féminité, en laquelle la narratrice ne se reconnaît pas. En effet, si, pour une génération, la femme doit être voilée ; pour la génération suivante, elle ne doit pas l’être, et cela à l’infini, comme si la femme se réduisait à ce qu’elle porte ou ne porte pas. A cette essentialisation, Emna Belhaj Yahia préfère sans doute un féminisme existentialiste, où l’existence précède l’essence, et non l’inverse.

De ce fait, la littérature contemporaine met en scène l’intersectionnalité tout en remettant en cause la catégorie de « femme ». Notons aussi que cette déconstruction de la catégorie de « sexe » s’accompagne d’une déconstruction de la catégorie de « race ». D’ailleurs, la langue arabe utilise le même terme pour dire « sexe » et « race », désignés tous deux par jins (qui peut aussi se traduire par « espèce »). De ce point de vue, la langue arabe semble nous inviter à dépasser les catégorisations « sexuelles » et « raciales » pour penser en termes de catégories mouvantes, et toujours à redéfinir.

Ce travail de redéfinition de notions liées au genre (masculin/féminin) ou à la culture (arabo-musulmane/occidentale) s’observe chez des écrivains tels Tayeb Sâlih, Amara Lakhous, ou encore Amin Maalouf. Ils appartiennent à une littérature post-coloniale qui repense les rapports de force tout en déconstruisant la notion d’identité fixe. Dans ce sens, ils s’inscrivent dans ce que Leslie McCall a appelé la complexité anticatégorique de l’intersectionnalité[13]. Amin Maalouf est allé jusqu’à théoriser cette nouvelle conception de l’intersectionnalité dans Les Identités meurtrières[14] en utilisant un modèle non plus à deux mais à une infinité de dimensions. En quelques mots : il se trouve que je peux être perçue comme une femme, ou bien comme un individu de culture musulmane, ou bien comme un.e salarié.e ou bien comme une personne aimant la nature etc. Or, ce qui est perçu de moi n’est pas la totalité de ce que je suis ; ce que je mets en avant n’est pas non plus la totalité de ce que je suis. L’identité est kaléidoscopique, et dépend des moments, des enjeux, des protagonistes et des circonstances. L’intersectionnalité n’est plus un croisement entre deux voies, mais un tourbillon d’intersections.

L’autre apport de cette littérature post-coloniale issue du Monde arabe à l’intersectionnalité de Kimberlé Crenshaw est la fin de la notion de « race ». Le mot n’est plus guère utilisé en langue française, bien que des théories « racistes » continuent à avoir cours. Il semblerait que les luttes contre les catégories de « sexe » et de « race » soient indissociables dans les littératures post-coloniales issues du Monde arabe. Car il s’agit de lutter contre tous les sectarismes. Et cela se fait aujourd’hui non seulement dans des ouvrages scientifiques, ou dans des romans, mais aussi dans la littérature enfantine. Deux exemples récents : dans sa série « Mes histoires préférées », la Maison d’édition tunisienne Messa opère une petite révolution à l’intention des enfants : Dora l’exploratrice y est présentée comme « une jolie petite fille brune de peau[15]» à un lectorat pour qui la blancheur est un critère de beauté ; et, dans un autre livre de cette même série, la princesse choisit elle-même celui qu’elle épousera, en interrogeant ses prétendants (tous les personnages masculins de Disney, réunis ici) et en tuant ceux qui ne répondent pas à ses questions[16].

Pour conclure, l’intersectionnalité de Kimberlé Crenshaw a non seulement traversé les décennies, mais aussi les frontières. C’est un formidable outil d’analyse, dont les catégories peuvent être discutées, mais dont l’efficacité opératoire ne se dément pas. Appliqué aux cultures arabo-musulmanes, cet outil nous aide à comprendre pourquoi les femmes peuvent y sembler invisibles : comme Nedjma, à la fois femme, arabe, juive et colonisée. A l’aide de l’intersectionnalité, nous saisissons mieux ce passage entre la représentation de la femme orientalisée et la femme voilée, toutes deux très présentes dans les imaginaires collectifs, mais inaudibles. Dans les deux cas, le son est coupé[17]: les femmes peintes par Delacroix durant son séjour algérien de 1832 ne parlent pas, et lorsque, aujourd’hui, en France ou ailleurs, une femme voilée prend la parole, on s’interroge sur son voile avant de l’écouter. La femme orientalisée de naguère et la femme voilée d’aujourd’hui se rejoignent dans un silence qu’il nous revient d’entendre et d’analyser.

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The history of El Paso’s queer population, in particular, has been briefly illustrated in various works, most notably by El Pasoan gay authors Arturo Islas and John Rechy, who both speak to various aspects of homosexual life in their burgeoning city.[3] This paper will place El Paso’s queer community in a larger discussion with intersectionality by exploring the chronicle of the city’s alternative nightclub – the Old Plantation (or OP) – across four decades, the 1970s to 2010s. By studying queer encounters along the border through intersectional lenses, it will uncover varying racial and sexual anxieties between the American imperial state via Fort Bliss and the surrounding Latina/o population. Due to El Paso’s bicultural history and segregated past, queer life must be examined through several academic and community–based methodologies, which cultural historians such as Hayden White and Lynn Hunt have employed in their studies of peoples and interactions, especially the use of oral testimonies.[4] Furthermore, a “people’s history” of queer life will elucidate sexual encounters (and transactions) that cannot be found easily in the traditional archive. Previous scholars like Madeline D. Davis and Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy have researched culturally homogeneous queer sexualities in cities before, but in locales without national borders or without multiple races like Latina/os.[5]

In order to historicize this city’s queer nightlife given the deprivation of printed sources, it employs theoretical frameworks from Latina/o scholars such as Michael Hames-Garcia, Juana María Rodríguez, Lawrence La Fountain-Stokes, and Ramón Rivera Servera, all of who have investigated queer Latina/o communities, relationships, and discourses.[6] Their scholarships retain the intersectional lenses of race, time, location, and sexuality to unravel histories of biopower and sexuality. The paper builds upon the models set forth by Hames-Garcia, contending that queer Latino identity is created in resistance to the “imposition of modern colonial manifestations,” such as white gay mainstream culture.[7] Furthermore, it adheres to the scholarship of queer Latina/o dance clubs laid out by La Fountain-Stokes, Rodríguez, and Servera, who suggest that the dance floor, rather than being a site of literal dancing, is more a location where colonized subjects, usually Anglo gay males, feast on the Latino-ness, or “latinidad” of the “othered” men present in the club.[8] Finally, it models oral testimonies upon historian Nan Alamilla Boyd, and the “historical narrative theory” proposed by Karen Halttunen.[9] In “Cultural History and the Challenge of Narrativity,” Halttunen calls for a “domestication of theoretical issues [about] narrativity” within the discipline of history to elaborate upon the relationships and connections between people in assembling histories.[10] This paper will construct a single narrative from several oral interviews to help uncover the queer past in the American Southwest, but should be used only as a starting point in further understanding the intricacies and intersectional nature of queer life and identity within contested borderlands between modern empires.

Before the OP: Cold War Gender Rights

In the early 1960s, the second wave of feminism permeated the United States with intellectuals such as Betty Freidan pushing for women and men to redefine gender roles by working in jobs and political spheres that were traditionally reserved for a single sex.[11] At the same time, Cold War era political and social sentiment transformed the nation’s civil rights positions, “as the primacy of anticommunism in postwar American politics and culture left a very narrow space for criticism of the status quo.”[12] Consequently, racial and sexual diversity were notions that were considered dangerous in a black/white, heterosexual society. Given the influence of the Feminist movement and the Cold War, 1960s El Paso homosexual life was hidden within “McKelligon Canyon or past the border into Mexico,” recalled Cristina Hernandez, a self-identified El Pasoan lesbian.[13] Hernandez, a fifty-five year old Mexican American, had spent her entire life in the borderlands region. The history of cruising, or driving slowly through city alleys and streets scouting for sex had been one of the main vehicles for El Paso gay men to find each other, but not lesbians.[14] Because of a lack of queer, in addition to heterosexual nightlife, El Pasoans negotiated the national boundary to experience the vibrant entertainment of Ciudad Juárez, Chihuahua.

Ever since the 1950s, Ciudad Juárez was deemed a cultural hotspot for northern Mexico and the southwest United States, hosting famous celebrities like Marilyn Monroe and James Dean who publicized their visits to the city known for its vivacious lifestyle.[15] Scholars, such as Rachel St. John, have even proposed that most northwestern Mexican border cities experienced a golden age of vice and international nightlife during the first half of the twentieth century.[16] El Paso resident Cristina Hernandez commented that before the rise of the disco era and the year 1973, Ciudad Juárez became “the city of sexual expression that lesbians could retreat to when they were not living different lives as heterosexual women in the city of sexual repression [El Paso].”[17] For several decades, El Pasoan queers not only separated their public from private lives, but also traversed the U.S.–Mexico border to fully embrace and perform their reserved sexual lives, especially when Cold War America retaliated against the conception of sexual freedom. In 1973, the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission lowered the legal drinking age from 21 to 18, and “many lesbians who crossed the border for alcohol and partying could now remain within the U.S., consuming booze,” stated Hernandez.[18] Perhaps it was of no coincidence that the legal drinking age changed, as the American disco music movement was concurrently growing in tandem around the United States, “especially among Hispanic and Black demographics.”[19]

Hernandez alleged that the disco movement “brought mainstream gay culture into straight bars and clubs, allowing for lesbians and gays to return to El Paso and participate in a new [revitalized] gay nightlife.”[20] The Pet Shop, one of the first lesbian bars in El Paso history, opened sometime in the early 1970s. According to El Pasoans Yolanda Chávez Leyva and Irma Montelongo, the Pet Shop was located underground in a prewar building that would later become the San Antonio Mining Bar.[21] Leyva, a leading fifty-eight year old Chicana lesbian, moved back to the city after completing college at Austin in the 1980s. Montelongo, a native fifty-two year old El Pasoan, experienced the many changes in nightlife within the region. Leyva and Montelongo revealed that the social environment of the bar was distinct from established disco bars and clubs, as “working-class femme and butch lesbian couples made up most of the patrons and they listened to a mixture of rock and roll, blues and disco.”[22] Furthermore, Montelongo maintained that “many of the butch lesbians embodied masculinity and at times, exhibited that masculinity by engaging femme and other butch lesbians within the dance space of the establishment.”[23] Leyva stated that her first experience in the Pet Shop was surprising yet comforting: “I walked downstairs into a place where all kinds of women had the freedom to do what they wanted.”[24] The Pet Shop succeeded in attracting a large lesbian population, in part because of the revitalized El Pasoan nightlife, or in part because of the new drinking law. But most of all, because this space operated as separate venue from mainstream disco culture, providing a safe haven for lesbians to congregate and express their sexualities. Word of mouth about its success reached other parts of Texas, and soon, more “alternative” bars began to open up downtown.

Creation of the OP: Queer “El Chuco”[25]

In the mid-1970s, Dallas-based company Craven Entertainment dispatched businessman Bob Bonaventure to scout for possible alternative bar locations that would bring the lesbian, gay and hetero-disco communities together in West Texas. Bonaventure, according to friend and co-worker Jak Klinkowaski, was thought to “believe that the trade secret to gaining a large audience – whether gay and straight – was to position a large ‘alternative’ club away from other clubs.”[26] Klinkowaski, an Anglo American El Paso native, worked in many of the queer bars throughout the last decades of the twentieth century. The space Bonaventure purchased eventually led to a conversion in El Paso’s queer culture. In 1977, he discovered that 219 South Ochoa Street had become vacant, and founded the thirty-five year-old bar that would go down as one of the longest running gay establishments in West Texas: the Old Plantation (OP).[27] According to several lesbian and gay oral histories, the OP bar was mixed with both women and male patrons.[28] During its first year, the bar included “multiple performances” of “drag shows, foam parties, all girls nights and military nights,” as well as a diverse audience of “whites, blacks, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, lesbians and gays and everything else in-between,” recalled Klinkowaski.[29] The minority, Montelongo and Klinkowaski recalled, “were Anglo males,” which was understandable given the large El Paso Latina/o demographic.[30]

The OP, like the Pet Shop, became a prime location for same-sex sensual expression and intimate encounters. Montelongo mentioned that the most unique part of the bar was the “female” bathroom, where “lesbians, straight women, and drag queens congregated and interacted with each other.” She recalled that the conversations that took place were illustrative of how different each “woman” viewed fashion, boys, girls and popular culture: “I remember talking about hair, dancing and music and even learned new colloquialisms.”[31] The bar brought the queer population of El Paso together on a single dance floor, and in closed, safe spaces like the bathroom. Rodríguez suggests in her work that “in multigendered queer Latino spaces, fags and dykes, both friends and strangers, will often invite each other out on the dance floor.”[32] The OP was no exception. There finally existed a fully public venue for perceived “deviant” behaviors and identities to congregate.

After homosexuality was removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) in 1973, it was assumed that lesbians and gays were able to express themselves with the understanding that their sexual identities were no longer classified federally as mental disorders.[33] This was not the case for the transgender community, as American psychiatrists maintained the notion that transgender identity was an illness that was synonymous with Gender-Identity Disorder (GID).[34] Susan Stryker has argued that after 1973, transgender populations throughout the U.S. felt left out of a national gay rights discourse because their identities had remained stigmatized. Stryker upheld that the transgender movement’s “politics toward the medical establishment were more like those of the reproductive freedom movement than those of the gay liberation movement.”[35] Moreover, she suggested that transgender individuals “wanted to secure access to competent, legal, respectfully provided medical services for a nonpathological need not shared equally by every member of society,” a concern that their queer sisters and brothers did not have to worry about.[36] While the political activism and awareness of lesbian and gay communities mobilized nationally and within the OP and El Paso, transgender persons still had to grapple with the reality that federal recognition and support of transsexuality would not arrive for some time.

As legal transgender legal rights idled, trans culture flourished. Klinkowaski pointed out the early 1970s were exciting due to the rise in “drag king culture and transgender participation at places like the OP.”[37] Drag kings essentially performed a gender and sexuality that was usually opposite of the drag king’s biological sex and acted gender. Thus, many drag kings were persons born with female sex organs who embodied notions of “masculinity” and contested “maleness.” Chanel, an forty-five year old Anglo American El Pasoan drag queen, or male performing femininity, stated that she “met various transgendered ‘women’ who told [Chanel] that they would perform as drag kings within the OP because other homosexuals and friends were more accepting of their lifestyles as drag queens and kings.”[38] Chanel commented that when she witnessed many transgendered females pushed to perform drag, she questioned her own desire and sexuality. Transgender persons posed a threat to the El Paso gay rights movement in that the people who represented transgender identities did not fit into the homosexual and heterosexual binary that was formed uniquely in the aftermath of the Cold War and the Civil Rights movement. While 1970s El Paso nightlife evolved to include more private spaces for lesbians and gays to interact, it reinforced the discrimination and overall national intolerance for the lifestyle and identity of transgender people living along and crossing the U.S.–Mexico Borderlands.

Even though the El Pasoan heterosexual population viewed the sexual conduct inside the OP bar as illicit, sexual behavior was not as polarized during the 1970s before the time of carnal epidemics. The exchange of oral and anal sex was “usually unprotected,” commented Chanel, as HIV had yet to enter society.[39] Chanel and Klinkowaski noted that while many individuals came to the bar to enjoy alcohol and disco music, others, “especially Anglo American males,” came there for sex. The two described that the place had become an outlet to “fast-track” sexual experiences. Chanel remarked that many of his “straight-identified” male friends “came to the OP, scouted out some Jorge or Guillermo [meaning any Latino looking boy], penetrated them and then left the club, never to speak to them again.”[40] The bar was an innovative dance space, not only due to the consumption of latinidad, which Rodríguez, La Fountain-Stokes and Servera articulate in their research, but also because the location operated as a space where two men, one identifying as “gay” and the other “straight,” executed sexual acts without personal knowledge of one another, but with complete anonymity and disclosure. In addition, the proximity to the national border bifurcated cultural and sexual understandings between Anglo, Latino, and other “foreign” men.

The reputation of the OP as an alternative bar would take a “moral blow,” after 1982, when Lawrence Altman described a disease that “attacked and killed homosexual men” called Gay-Related-Immune-Disorder, or GRID, in his controversial New York Times article.[41] In the words of Chanel, “it was as if everything they [bigots, heterosexuals, society] said was vindicated, our lifestyles were scientifically condemned.”[42] Thus, OP sexual politics for gay men, as Chanel pointed out, “were disrupted and sexual activity decreased in number for several weeks,” as the public waited to learn about the proper precautions in distancing oneself from contraction.[43] Still, unprotected sex occurred between various bar attendees. Chanel and Klinkowaski reaffirmed that “having unprotected sex up to 1984 was considered normal and there wasn’t the stigma that existed today.”[44] After GRID (Gay Related Immune Disease) was reclassified scientifically as HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) and the use of a condom was articulated as the best defense in protecting oneself from the disease, the sexual behaviors in the bar rehabilitated with the increased use of the condom.

The erotic practice of “barebacking” also arose from the HIV/AIDS stigma in response to changes in contemporary sexual behaviors during the 1980s. At the time, many in the El Pasoan queer community were both in denial and acceptance of the possible consequences and “euphoric risks” associated with anal sex without a condom. Tim Dean historicizes and explains the phenomenon of barebacking in relation to the prejudice of homosexual life as “both the premeditation and eroticization of unprotected anal sex.”[45] Thus, barebacking was the sexual act of unprotected sex in an HIV/AIDS conscious age. Before the pandemic, Chanel engaged in unprotected sex that was synonymous with barebacking, but the action lacked the associated social and moral stigma in a post-HIV/AIDS discursive environment. Now, the “gesture” of barebacking brought intimate, political, and social underpinnings. The lens of “gesture,” first used in deconstructing queer life by Rodríguez, can also serve as another intersectional unit in investigating queer behaviors. She explains gesture as “a socially legible and highly codified form of kinetic communication, and as a cultural practice that is differentially manifested through particular forms of embodiment.”[46] Hence, the gesture and practice of barebacking was politically charged.

In The Subculture of Barebacking, Dean revealed that the notion of hypermasculinity was associated with the exchange of semen during gay bareback sex as “hypermasculinity accrues to the man who assumes what used to be thought of as the female role in homosexual relations. The more men by whom one is penetrated, the more of a man he becomes.”[47] Chanel and Klinkowaski stated that barebacking held an inimitable attraction for them: “it felt good before, but now raw sex felt more intimate and deeper,” explained Chanel.[48] Sex between two participants of the same gender altered structures of power, control and masculinity. Furthermore, kinship became the ultimate result rather than the consumption of more masculinity, as the entrance of sexual risk made the act of sex more dangerous. Dean argued that bareback subculture’s hypermasculinization of bottoming, “its picturing erotic submission as a proof of manhood could be seen as a compensatory response to modern society’s feminization of male homosexuality.” Dean’s contention is corroborated by the testimonies taken from various attendees of the OP, and fits the categorization of gesture, which Rodríguez unpacks in her research.[49]

While the entrance of GRID and later HIV/AIDS reformed club attendance, sexual practices as well as understandings of sexual identities at the OP, the bar still became a landmark of El Paso queer culture. The bar featured weekends where “events were either sold out or near occupancy level,” remembered Klinkowaski. The OP, unlike other night clubs like The Pet Shop, attracted “the most diverse clientele out of all the clubs” as “Blacks, Whites, Cholos, and Drag Queens all shared the dance floor,” something various queer residents were not accustomed to seeing in El Paso.[50] Attendance was high at the bar, and popularity only increased over time. Eventually, Bonaventure realized that his bar was too small to accommodate El Paso’s queer and “straight” audience, and decided to move it to a larger venue. In 1985, he found an open lot across the street at 301 S. Ochoa Street.[51] The New Old Plantation as Bonaventure called it was advertised as “bigger, better and operated by gays and lesbians.”[52] The OP’s move added more publicity and audience to the nightclub, and its existence was now fully recognized and felt throughout El Paso. Chanel stated that “tipping,” or the process of drag queens engaging in sexual acts with white and black military men, increased as the New OP’s building had two floors where individuals could retreat to and maintain a sense of privacy. As the dance space of the New OP was split between different stories, people could choose their crowd and ambience. Chanel remembered the sexual politics, and “gestures” of the club:

Younger boys situated themselves at the focal point of the dance floor while older men circulated the periphery, scouting for any men. And if he had luck, he and his boy would go upstairs and move to a corner to either make out, or perform oral sex.[53]

Klinkowaski similarly recalled:

I remember the girls’ bathroom was where to hookup, mainly because its where all the trannies went. And it also helped that it was ‘cleaner,’ not just in hygiene but some trannies were ‘Poz’ [HIV-Positive] and therefore always used condoms.[54]

It became apparent that while the club featured the same demographics of the original OP, sexual encounters and meetings were executed in new spaces in the two-story gay discotheque. Simultaneously, the anal sex that was performed in the dark corners and bathrooms of the New OP was split between barebacking and protected sex, whether or not knowledge of HIV/AIDS was present.

The club’s dance floors allowed for multiple performativities of gender and sexuality in comparison to its original, which was styled more as a bar than a nightclub. While Klinkowaski and Chanel mentioned that “straight” men came to find young Latino males, Mexican Americans and Mexican-nationals from Ciudad Juárez also interacted with the “heterosexual” men. The space of the club had perhaps transcended nation as well as ethnicity. Adrian Gutierrez, another gay attendee during the early 80s, noted that “the only reason why the OP was different was the inclusion of Anglo straight acting men.”[55] Gutierrez, a forty-nine year old contractor for the U.S. Army Military Beaumont Medical Center, was a teenager when the OP first opened. Gutierrez revealed that many of the men he had sex with from the OP were enlisted soldiers who were usually single but mentioned that a couple of them were married to women and had children. He believed the “rush and taboo” associated with sleeping with “straight men” made the act attractive in addition to barebacking.

Gutierrez stated that “masculine” or “straight acting men” were most desirable for gays, mainly because they embodied a masculinity and sexuality that he and his friends envied and craved. The club transformed into a site of contact for consumption(s) of masculinity between distinct parties; in Gutierrez’s case, he received the thrill of being with a “straight” man, which informed his sense of manliness. More interestingly is that his Anglo sexual partners gained something particularly special in return: consumption of latinidad, or alternative masculinity, that he (the military male) had eroticized and “othered” onto Gutierrez. Historian George Chauncey has explored a similar sexual exchange of masculinity between effeminate “fairies” and more masculine “queers” in New York City; the difference in the case of the OP and Gutierrez was that ethnicity and race were also exchanged between sexual partners.[56] Using the theories set forth by Hames-Garcia, Gutierrez also desired Anglo military men because of the innate “modern colonial power dynamic” that epistemically thwarted Gutierrez into desiring kinship from colonizers.[57] But Rodríguez believes that scholars must think of consuming latinidad as a practice of reaffirming agency for the consumed Latina/o. She contends that “rather than attempt to redeem or erase our [Latina/o] experiences of violence and violation, register the possibility of recovering pleasure in the shame of abjection, a sexual pleasure that engages the sexual submission demanded of racialized subjects.”[58] In applying Rodríguez, the exchange of racial fetishization serves both parties.

It is notable that the impact of Fort Bliss and its men held a unique position in terms of the behavior of people who attended the club. The presence of Fort Bliss had long been felt before the opening of the OP in 1977. Historian Leon C. Metz writes that Fort Bliss was founded in response to the U.S. War with Mexico during 1848, citing that the U.S. Department of War felt the need to form a military post to occupy and protect the area opposite Mexico’s Paso Del Norte.[59] Fort Bliss was created at a time when Mexican-nationals and Anglo Americans fought a borderless conflict. And for over a century, the fort was steadily growing, and represented a facet of the past and presence of military history. When the original OP opened, this military presence had already existed and was over a hundred years old. According to the 1960 through 2000 censuses, the size of the Fort Bliss military population had progressively increased through time, with a total population of 8,286 persons or 1,444 households and families by 2000.[60] That figure did not include troops who arrived at the fort for deployment overseas, government contractors, or El Pasoan hired workers, which would bring the population number to over 30,000. Moreover, it did not include troops who arrived to the area for a two-week briefing before deployment to Asia.

Klinkowaski, Chanel, and Gutierrez, revealed in their oral interviews that the OP’s dance stage was filled with military personnel: “we began to see not only whites and Latinos, but also Middle Eastern men who informed us that they were employed by the U.S. military as contractors.”[61] Why did the OP environment attract so many agents of the state? In one of the interviews with an enlisted soldier who wanted to remain anonymous, it was noted that the club became the “only homosocial space where we [anonymous] could be intimate with each other and acknowledge our sexualities. Being on post [Fort Bliss] everyday takes a toll on you, as you must act straight-edged all the time in an environment that is dominated only by men.”[62] The atmosphere of the club was much like that of Fort Bliss; the difference was that one’s sexuality and behavior was not judged and embraced on the OP dance ground and in the closed spaces of the facility.

The last few oral histories that this author conducted were with servicewomen that were referred to by other club owners. Based on several testimonies from anonymous military women who moved to Fort Bliss in the early 1990s, there indeed existed a large lesbian servicewoman community. One respondent stated that “lesbian and bisexual life was easy to navigate at the OP and other alternative bars like Nua Nua, the San Antonio Mining and the Whatever Lounge because they had been distanced enough from the military base.”[63] The same female army soldier stated that she was looking for femme lesbians, and commented that the club was the best place to find mostly femme, Latina lesbians. Another female army officer regarded the Whatever Lounge as her favorite spot because she looked for both femme as well as butch lesbians. When asked if they saw or met any transgendered persons, both women replied no, suggesting that the “transgendered people they did see in the 1990s were able to transition and perform in full gender,” thus making them lesbian or gay rather than transgender in the women’s eyes.[64] Before the use of the Internet, several spaces within downtown El Paso operated as meeting points for lesbian servicewomen.

The two female military officers also knew from other female colleagues before they were stationed to Fort Bliss that the lesbian culture had grown increasingly throughout El Paso since the late 1970s.[65] The women confirmed that they felt a sense of “unanimity because they had the luxury of separating their public lives as military servicewomen from their lesbian lifestyles in downtown as their work would never leave the gates of Fort Bliss and into the larger, civilian El Paso.”[66] While lesbian life was not exposed publicly on Fort Bliss, lesbian state agents migrated downtown, in the same way that 1960s El Pasoan lesbians traveled to Ciudad Juárez. The presence of Fort Bliss had a significant influence on the demographic that attended the OP. Chanel reiterated that “because the OP featured new and exotic men who wanted men, it became even more of a popular nightclub.”[67] The original and New OP channeled sexual politics that reflected more national discourses concerning not only mainstream Anglo gay culture, but also racial and ethnic tensions and desires.

New Leadership at the OP: The Decline of Queer “El Chuco”

In 1986, Klinkowaski left the employment of the New OP and Bonaventure eventually sold his club to its current owners, Jesus Santillan and his partner Gilbert Morales. Under the leadership of Santillan and Morales, who also owned The San Antonio Mining Cluband The Whatever Lounge, the use of social media was employed, as they advertised their New OP through magazines such as El Paso 411, a local digest.[68] In the 1990s, the two men achieved more publicity by promoting the club in West Texas queer publications such as 1994’s El Paso PRIDE and 1999’s Microcosm El Paso/Juarez, which were circulated throughout El Paso, Las Cruces, and Ciudad Juárez.[69] Klinkowaski and Chanel continued to visit the OP during milestone events, such as the “Halloween costume garty,” and the New Year’s Eve party, both of which were usually heavily attended.[70] The owners contended that during the 1990s, they began to see “a decrease in attendance to the OP, as the clubs on Stanton Street were more popular and more people cruised them.”[71] During the early 1990s, newer gay clubs began opening on Stanton Street, an area located directly in the heart of downtown El Paso. Klinkowaski and Chanel believed that because of the creation of a “pride square that featured new and upcoming clubs such as 8 and ½,Chiquita’s,and The Briar Patch,” there was less of an impetus to return to the other side of downtown to visit the OP.[72]

At the time when queer individuals and interested heterosexuals had a choice in attending different alternative clubs, Santillan and Morales decided to advertise the club as a space that featured an exclusively gay male clientele by appealing to the majority-male, military community. Marketing was again spread through word of mouth, but also through El Paso 411, and queer publications like PRIDE.[73]The new owners not only had to compete with other gay and lesbian bars and clubs, however, but also had to remain knowledgeable of current trends and fads in popular culture that they could incorporate into their gay male nightclub. In one interview with a source affiliated with the New OP who wished to remain anonymous, the New OP tried hosting events, which aimed to spark the interest of younger males as well as portraying a nostalgic 1970s theme such as disco to the older crowd. Thus, themes like “July All Red White Blue Block Party,” and “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Dance” were commonplace at the club.[74] The argued result was that the OP would see a return of past attendees. The actual effect, however, was a dwindling attendance rate, especially since the owners mainly appealed to gay males and interested heterosexuals.

The process of recreating a male homosocial gay club by projecting Anglo military culture as caricature is similar to the notions of Jasbir Puar’s ascendency of whiteness and larger homonational projects. As Puar writes, the “national homosexual subject,” who has historically been a white Anglo male, “seeks to dismantle any foreign homosexual culture or politic,” and impose a uniformed Anglo homonormativity that “aims to destroy any sexual-racial other that does not adhere to whiteness.”[75] The themed events that Santillan and Morales constructed illustrated how beliefs of imposing homonational sentiment in the OP would assist in attracting a larger male audience. Gutierrez notes that during the 90s, “many mid-aged men lost interest in the OP and the club was more populated with young under-21-year-olds and older, white Anglo and African American military men.”[76] The multiculturalness and diversity of the OP shifted to Hames-Garcia’s epitome of “modern colonial” systems, where military men exoticized not only the colonized, Latino-ness of the younger men, but also their gayness that did not prescribe to the hegemonic, homonationalist model of queer identity that the military men understood.[77] And so, as the military presence on Fort Bliss increased through the 1990s, so too did the Anglo male attendance at the club.

The 2000s “saw a steady interest back into the New OP, increased participation in queer events like Mr. Pride Texas, and its citywide collaboration with El Paso Sun City Pride” during June Pride Fest, revealed Klinkowaski.[78] Chanel stated that with the beginning of the Iraq war in 2003 “much more Puerto Rican and African American vets were seen in the club,” something that they recall was “new and called attention in the gay community.”[79] When asked how they knew these men were veterans, Chanel responded that “their straight edged-ness with distinct military haircuts, which were usually short fades, pinpointed them as vets.”[80] The sexual encounters in the OP throughout the 2000s were “militarized” due to the increased attendance from wartime soldiers. Santillan and Morales had succeeded in revitalizing the level of male attendance at their club vis-à-vis homonational propaganda. Puar argues that homonationalism is a byproduct and symptom of war-related sentiment and emerges in response to “terrorist assemblages and attacks upon notions of citizenship, identity and sexuality.”[81] The Iraq War and the proximity of Fort Bliss to the New OP reasserted the need for military men to escape the government land and perform their same-sex desires with Mexican-national and Mexican American males. Homonationalism and a post-9/11 Anglo gay identity, however, became difficult to completely impose in a border city, as many of the non-military attendees who entered the club “were mixed, bilingual and lived separate lives as Mexican Americans and as jotos (fags),” declared Gutierrez.[82]

Santillan and Morales began to employ new social media outlets that had never been accessed before, such as MySpace and eventually Facebook, to maintain the slowly growing interest in their decades-old club.[83] The posters the two circulated in downtown El Paso and on social media websites employed images of queer military men to attract the various demographics the OP had seen in attendance during the early 1980s. They commissioned these images and concepts from the late 1990s until the 2010s. The themes associated with these documents illustrated the appeal and fixation for Anglo military personnel. In a study of archived posters produced by the owners of the OP, one can view how these advertisements conflated traditional images such as the military uniform and colors reminiscent of national holidays, such as Labor Day, with queer themes. Moreover, veterans who revealed their military IDs at the door received free admission.[84] Santillan and Morales hoped that by appealing and commodifying the military to the OP’s diverse clientele, the club would remain busy or at least regain its historic demographic of military men and El Paso Latinos. Images of army men illustrated the masculinity Gutierrez, Klinkowaski, and Chanel desired. At the same time, these images and others like them, reminded the spectator of a fantasy: sexual activities with the colonizer, an idea that “aroused” young men like Gutierrez. The backdrop of the Iraq War persuaded Santillan and Morales to recreate homonational imagery to attract a once popular demographic back to the New OP. Gutierrez surmised that many of the soldiers he met and slept with eventually left Fort Bliss and arrived to the club to forget the duties of a serviceman during war times.

Homonational imagery, the aesthetic that Santillan and Morales tried to embed in their club, succeeded in drawing gay males from the city, Northern Mexico, and Fort Bliss. But it could no longer contain El Paso’s ever growing queer identity of lesbians and other gay men. The U.S.-Mexico border and Fort Bliss functioned as catalysts in assisting Latina/o lesbians and gays to break free from “white Anglo gay culture and identity,” and embrace a queerness that exceeded the narrow categorization that Santillan and Morales tried to incubate. Over time, the OP no longer became a club for gays, but “for allies and everything in-between.”[85] After thirty-five years of evolution, El Paso queer identity metamorphosed. The original and New OP was a bar, and later a club, that illustrated the power, gender, and sexual politics that would raise and harness the uniqueness and interchangeability of borderland sexual identities and behaviors.

The New OP officially shut down on October 27, 2012.[86] No official word has been given to why Santillan and Morales suddenly closed it doors. Online social media outlets such as Twitter and Facebook allowed El Pasoans of all generations to comment on the legacy the club left on the city.[87]

Conclusion

In the history of U.S. sexuality, scholars have contended that the lesbian, gay, and transgender past grew in tandem with the Civil Rights era, blossomed during the Stonewall Riots and took shape through the 1970s and 1980s. This paper argued that in borderland cities with predominately Latina/o populations like El Paso, scholars must examine sexuality and the story of LGBT movements through multiple intersectional lenses and academic methodologies to further elucidate the contested history of queer peoples. The original and New OP provided the first long-standing alternative public space for folks of all sexual identifications in the bordered, bicultural city of El Paso. Bonaventure built a bar that staged music and sexual trends, which were in conversation with the national sexual movements of the U.S. from the 1970s to the 2010s. Sexual behaviors and identities transformed, however, with the entrance of HIV/AIDS and war, as attendees altered sexual acts based on national stigma, homonational imagery, and wartime sentiment. The dance floor of the OP came to represent colonial, racial, and ethnic consumptions between Anglos and Latina/os, gay males, and men who have sex with men, military personnel and civilians. Even more, the themes and commercialization of the OP revealed the interconnectedness between its political assemblages and sexual norms. After thirty-five years, the old and the New Old Plantation stood as a testament to the construction of community spaces and most especially, racial and ethnic fetishisms within the U.S.–Mexico Borderlands. Queer nightlife did reside in the American Southwest, fighting local, national, and international normative discourses of gender and sexuality. The principal border for queer communities and individuals situated along the U.S.-Mexico national boundary is the borderland called their sexuality.

The post This Borderland Called My Sexuality: Excavating Queer Nightlife of the American Southwest Through the Lens of Intersectionality appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The female voices in Shafak’s novel merge in a curious manner. One family lives in the United States, Armenian refugees who emphasize the importance of their traditions. The Turkish family that remains in Istanbul, however, has changed and modernized. The two young girls in the novel, Armanoush (Armenian-American) and Asya (Turkish), are unlikely, disparate step-sisters, who begin to bridge the gap between Turkish and Armenian traditions. The families are faced with challenges despite the similarity of their cultures, in terms of food, music and religious traditions. The two girls are unknowingly linked by a weak father, Mustafa, himself a product of persecution and upheaval. At his death, Mustafa transforms from a physical being into a silent, physical space that allows for conversation, healing and understanding. Without words to define his transformation, Mustafa the man disappears and instead becomes the framework of a mythological text.

Myth is a sacred type of speech that allows people to recognize and name the unspeakable. Roland Barthes believes that all obvious cultural objects have the power to attain mythical properties. Barthes says,

Every object in the world can pass from a closed, silent existence to an oral state, open to appropriation by society, for there is no law, whether natural or not, which forbids talking about things. A tree is a tree. Yes, of course. But a tree as expressed by Minou Drouet is no longer quite a tree, it is a tree which is decorated, adapted to a certain type of consumption, laden with literary self-indulgence, revolt, images, in short with a type of social usage which is added to pure matter. (109)

The body of a man has the ability to transform from a physical presence into a culturally significant text, filled with symbol and rhetoric larger than the individual. In coming to understand the events in Mustafa’s life that led to his eventual demise, the reader becomes a key participant in the evolution of myth. Barthes states that: “[M]yth is a type of speech chosen by history: it cannot possibly evolve from the ‘nature’ of things” (109). Therefore, in order to understand Mustafa’s mythological significance, the reader too must know his history.

Shafak takes great pains to explain a character’s societal and cultural significance. She uses categories as names, creating nick-names laden with socially constructed, obvious and essentialized identities. This unique approach must be differentiated from simply explaining a society or culture. Here, characters represent a specific aspect of a society and their actions, expressions, words and descriptions allow the reader to comprehend the nuances from particular stereotypes within the culture. By creating characters with disparate identities, she creates forms and through these forms, she enables speech. Shafak is, of course, designing a mythological society that parallels the actual. She leaves intelligent, obvious and accessible signs in this created culture. When Armanoush, self-named ‘Madame My-Exiled-Soul’ in her online chat room, decides to seek her roots, she claims, “I need to find my identity…. This is a journey into my family’s past, as well as into my future. The Janissary’s Paradox will haunt me unless I do something to discover my past” (117). Shafak deftly moves Armanoush from one place to the next through conversations with people categorized by their stereotype, creating layers of intersections and accessible, informative bridges simultaneously. The reader must note the importance of this technique, or overlook the meaning of Zeliha’s introduction, Armanoush’s journey to discover her Turkish family or Mustafa’s eventual death. This proves that the characters’ identities have been formed, in part, by cultural norms. They are mapped by things greater than themselves.

Due to the accepted norms placed upon women by religion and culture, the reader is doubly shocked at Zeliha’s rebellious nature, which forms a complex grid of intersections. The novel begins with Zeliha’s attempted abortion. Everything within this first chapter startles the senses. Unlike traditional Turkish women, Zeliha Kazanci speaks brusquely and rebelliously, but also places importance on traditional cultural practices such as the delicacy of teacups and the ritual of prayer. She embodies anger, rage, frustration and strength all of which affirm her voice, body and occupation as the text that deciphers the entire mythology. Zeliha’s narrative and experience is solidly placed within a marginalized world, outside of Islamic norms and made possible only through the use of character types. As Kimberlé Crenshaw notes, “[W]e will dare to speak against internal exclusions and marginalizations, that we might call attention to how the identity of ‘the group’ has been centered on the intersectional identities of a few” (“Mapping the Margins” 1299). In other words, Shafak’s novel utilizes culturally prescribed stereotypes in order to highlight disparities of identity. The Kazanci family forms the body of this myth and, therefore, in a male-dominated society, Zeliha is able to own a tattoo parlor, wear miniskirts and speak her mind, bridging both ancient custom and radical modernism.

From this introduction, the novel moves quickly while many characters are described, some developed, and some left as shadowy substances that represent nothing more than their assigned role. In this deluge of characters, Shafak purposefully chooses to begin and end the novel with the strength, resilience and rebelliousness of Zeliha. In order to understand The Bastard of Istanbul, one must understand Zeliha’s full-bodied mythological representation which contrasts with Mustafa’s bare form. Mustafa, Gulsum’s only son and Zeliha’s older brother, is introduced as a “king in his house” and “precious from the day he was born” (31). As a child, Mustafa was arrogant, rude, greedy and unlikeable to everyone but his family. Due to the fact that most of the men in the Kazanci family die unexpected deaths before reaching the age of fifty, these women decide to send Mustafa away for school as a form of protection. Mustafa’s existence within the Kazanci household allows him only silence as he is smothered by women.  The women, then, conspire to keep Mustafa alive and out of reach of the family curse by sending him to the United States. Until the very end of the novel, he resides in Arizona and does not return to Istanbul. Other than a quick history of Mustafa, the novel barely discusses him, proving that he is minimized by his own weaknesses and overshadowed by strong women.

As a voiceless, adolescent male, deified by a group of women, Mustafa, therefore, remains a shadowy figure throughout the novel. The reader learns about him through the voices and eyes of his sisters and future wife, Rose. In fact, Mustafa first speaks more than two thirds of the way through the novel, and then only about weather in Istanbul. He hints at regrets, but does not articulate them. Instead, the narrator notes, “[I]f truth be told, more than Arizona or any other place, it was the future that he [Mustafa] had chosen to settle in and call his home – a home with its backdoor closed to the past” (285). Without a past, Mustafa is an unactualized shell. Yet, the reader should recognize the cultural importance of the only male in a Turkish family. Typically, families would rely on the male to complete all business transactions in addition to offering a certain unspoken respectability. Instead, Shafak points out the way that female voices in a Turkish society can create intimacy and richness. And she allows the story to unfold through the Kazanci women. Shafak utilizes the language of the novel as both a background into social institutions and representative of social values. Roland Barthes explains the way that one accesses idea through form. Bridging both ideology and semiology, Mustafa is idea-in-form, he functions purely as a cultural stereotype representative of historical ideologies (Barthes 112). Deified, fragmented, bereft of emotion, Mustafa’s voice arrives in only two sections of the novel: Zeliha’s rape and Mustafa’s own death.

Shafak creates other human bodies in order to assume a space which will represent an idea-in-form, linked by universal, culturally significant history. In this way she builds a mythological, but culturally significant family. Generally speaking, The Bastard of Istanbul is a novel of women. The first chapter alone introduces the reader to Zeliha and the four other remarkably different women in the Kazaci household.  In addition to living without a male in the house, the Kazanci sisters assume extravagant qualities including clairvoyance and hypochondria. The mother, Gulsum, ironically avoids sentimental attachments, presenting as a severe and nearly silent figure throughout the novel. Mary Douglas writes, “To which particular bodily margins its beliefs attribute power depends on what situation the body is mirroring” (121). The family within their societal role, then, becomes the culturally significant text expressing sexual taboo and ritual.

The novel opens with the lines, “Whatever falls from the sky above, thou shall not curse it. That includes the rain” (1). Water serves as a linguistic device at critical times in the story, meant to draw attention to the implicit cultural identifiers. In this case, the character of Zeliha, on her way to obtain an abortion curses the rain, in direct contrast to etiquette and expected cultural norms. Then, as she receives anasthesia, Zeliha imagines cobblestones falling from the sky. The text reads, “[I]t was raining cobblestones from the blue skies. When a cobblestone fell from the sky, a cobblestone lessened from the pavement below. Above the sky and under the ground, there was the same thing: VO-ID” (19). Zeliha screams and the doctor abandons the abortion. First, real rain descends into the text, and then links into the cobblestones of Zeliha’s dream. Zeliha, sister of a ‘prince’, beautiful, youthful, falls in the same sense as the cobblestone, through a void. As she prepares to cross the physical boundary of abortion, Zeliha’s body becomes a text heavily laden with images. Mary Douglas notes, “Any structure of ideas is vulnerable at its margins” (121). Therefore, as Zeliha’s body awaits an abortion on the surgical table, she absorbs and reflects societal symbolism. For her, the chanting of the Friday prayer, typically a holy day, resulted in an internal awakening that allows her to abandon the abortion and accept the life of a single mother in a society that values the male.

The major events in this novel all incorporate rain. The element of rain, then, becomes the link that allows an object to transcend daily discourse and enter into myth. The rain from this scene links modern day Istanbul and Zeliha’s story directly to Noah’s ark as told by Auntie Banu, which will further enlighten the way in which bodies can be read as culturally significant texts. The familiar story of Noah’s ark is changed slightly in this retelling. Auntie Banu’s story focuses on the way that all members of Noah’s ark must share food. The ingredients physically combine to create community and sustainability through the image of a single pot of ashure. It is important that Shafak uses such a common myth and equally as important that she edits it to pinpoint a singular cultural event involving food. This shared history allows the story’s transcendence into a mythopoetic form. Instead of the biblical story of the flood, the myth transforms into one through which readers will experience struggle, survival and salvation in terms of these two families. Barthes writes, “Unlike the form, the concept is in no way abstract: it is filled with situation. Through the concept, it is a whole new history which is implanted in the myth” (119). In this case, Noah’s ark models an entire narrative that involves flood, famine, hardship and salvation. Rain signifies growth, change, and transfer and links the three major events of this novel: Zeliha’s rape, Zeliha’s abortion and Mustafa’s death.

The Kazanci family represents a marginalized portion of Turkish culture and history, evidenced by the oddities of Mustafa’s burial. The women in this novel deal with the dead body in a very unique manner, mixing both fairy tale and tradition and finally dipping into myth. The family chooses not to bury the body immediately, which is rare in Turkish society.  Instead, Mustafa’s body is washed, prepared for burial and transported back to the Kazanci household for a viewing, despite numerous religious objections.

 The body was cleansed with a bar of daphne soap, as fragrant and pure as the pastures in paradise are said to be. It was scrubbed, swabbed, rinsed, and then left to dry naked on the flat stone in the mosque-yard before being wrapped in a three-piece cotton shroud, placed in a coffin, and despite the adamant counsel of the elderly to bury it on the same day, loaded in a hearse to be driven directly back to the Kazanci domicile. (338)

The Kazanci women blend and bend the rules of Islam depending on their emotional needs. They determine that the body should remain visible to family and friends, but more importantly, to the reader. It is significant that the novel ends with Mustafa’s body resting within the Kazanci household, unburied, shrouded, in much the same role as his entire life: surrounded by women, silent, lifeless and yet, significant. The women circle around Mustafa’s shroud, creating a new space and a new ritual.

The irregular treatment of Mustafa’s shrouded body allows the story to assume mythological properties. As the body is prepared for burial, the narrator notes, “[I]t started to drizzle; sparse, reluctant drops, as if the rain too wanted to play a role in all of this but just hadn’t taken sides yet” (338).  Once again, the presence of rain alerts the reader of the story’s framework, and of the underlying mythology. Noah’s flood has begun to trickle into a modern era, blending old with new, at play with chronological time. Not only does water fall from the sky, but soccer fans flood the streets. These fans interrupt the funeral procession, a fact that becomes relevant when discussing the intersection of myth and fairy tale. Mary Douglas claims, “Just as it is true that everything symbolises the body, so it is equally true (and all the more so for that reason) that the body symbolises everything else” (122). The reader literally follows the frame of the story through the watery streets of Istanbul, flooded with the modern noise, people and cars. Disgusted with the soccer fans, the driver of the hearse asks Armanoush and Asya, “Aren’t they Muslim or what?” (345). Attempting to show his disgust at the lack of respect for religious customs he sees in the soccer fans, this comment actually solidifies the transformation of fairy tale into myth. Shafak is asking the reader to answer this question. Are the people in this novel Muslim? Are they modern? Are they traditional? And where is the line between the two drawn?

The story of Zeliha’s rape follows closely on the heels of Banu’s retelling of Noah’s ark and ashure. The story begins, “But the day Auntie Zeliha was raped was not a rainy day” (307).  The absence of rain highlights the physical divide, the rupture of time and of nature. As Armanoush, the youngest of the Armenians, and a second generation Armenian-American, begins to comprehend the differences that exist between the two cultures, she notes, “For the Armenians, time was a cycle in which the past incarnated in the present and the present birthed the future. For the Turks, time was a multihyphenated line, where the past ended at some definite point and the present started anew from scratch, and there was nothing but rupture in between” (164-5). Void, anger, avoidance and isolation fill the current ‘rupture’. In a similar way, Zeliha and Mustafa begin their lives within this void. Brought up as witnesses to and products of the estrangement of their cultures, the rape only confirms the existence of a hyphenated line. The absence of rain during the violent event obviates the discord between time and nature.

In this novel, there are two events that interrupt the natural flow of life:  Zeliha’s rape and the Armenian genocide. Shafak explores the events of the Armenian genocide through the story of Hovhannes Stamboulian, an Armenian author and intellectual. The reader sees only his march to prison, an unfinished children’s story upon his desk. Guards demand that he leave his desk mid-story while writing a myth that relies heavily upon culturally significant objects, such as the pomegranate. This is the beginning of the genocide, the rupture of time and nature. After his death, most of Hovhannes’ sons and daughters move to the United States to begin again, removed from the painful location of persecution.  Hovhannes’ daughter, Shushan, marries into the Kazanci family, which is Turkish, and remains in Istanbul for a short time. She ultimately abandons her Turkish family to rejoin the Armenian family in the United States. Shushan begins a new life and from there is mother to a wholly Armenian family inside America. The family that she has abandoned, purportedly Turkish, assumes a family curse. Something of the unnatural and evil sentiments reflective of the fear involved in the persecution remains hidden among the Kazanci men, and it is said that they are fated to die before their fiftieth birthday. Ignorant of this, Shushan left the Kazanci family for America, and married again, becoming a mother to an Armenian-American family in addition to the Turkish family she left behind. Armanoush, the youngest of the Armenian-Americans, notes the “mordant gap between the children of those who had managed to stay and the children of those who had to leave” (254). The silent past affects both Turks and Armenians, but without addressing the issues, the gap between two cultures widens. In much the same way, the two families’ histories unexpectedly intertwine and this is to Shafak’s purpose of creating space to discuss cultural taboo.

Mustafa cannot entirely bear the blame for his impulsive, irrational, angry conduct. Raised by women who pampered him, raised to be a prince, raised to be the man who breaks the family curse, Mustafa has little chance of finding his own voice in life. Instead, in an act of pure rage, Mustafa rapes and unknowingly impregnates Zeliha’s body which then assumes the weight of repression and the fallen woman. Zeliha’s body physically becomes larger with motherhood in direct opposition to Mustafa’s emaciated body and literal absence. Asya’s arrival as a bastard is important because she will be the key piece which forces dialogue in the end. As Barthes claims, “[I]ts [the myth's] point of departure is constituted by the arrival of meaning” (123). The presence of both Zeliha and her daughter, Asya, at Mustafa’s death allows them to hold a discussion about past events. Mustafa’s death creates space for the rejection of taboos, such as incest and rape, and replacement of myth with the conceptual neologism of future inclusivity. His death removes Zeliha from mythology and places her solidly back into a future of unruptured time, a future in which she has overcome the cultural difficulties placed upon women in Turkish society.

Throughout the novel, Shafak plays with time and place. She moves seamlessly between past and present, the United States and Istanbul. She carefully highlights the weakness and lifelessness of the present day, Americanized Mustafa so that, when looking back at the time continuum of historical events, one understands the origination of the puppet strings he wears. Mustafa is a creation of his heritage, nothing more, nothing less. Due to family pressures, family heritage and political upheaval, he could not have been other than what he was. He could not have acted differently. The weight and complexity of the intersections of his particular identity did not allow for tools that would enable atonement. Instead, he seeks silence, distance and avoidance. Because he is male, Mustafa achieves this separation without question. Most importantly, Mustafa’s silence and virtual departure from his family create a different kind of form from Zeliha’s. Like his ancestor, Hovhannes Stamboulian, Mustafa’s absence generates the space where story unravels.

Mustafa’s destined path began generations before his birth, with the imprisonment and death of the Armenian intellectual, Hovhannes Stamboulian. As guards lead him to prison, Hovhannes recalls a passage from Rousseau’s Social Contract: “Man is born free but everywhere is in chains. In reality, the difference is that the savage lives within himself while social man lives outside himself and can only live in the opinion of others, so that he seems to receive the feeling of his own existence only from the judgement of others concerning him” (235). And generations later, Mustafa arrives to prove Rousseau’s point and link himself to Hovhannes’ story. Mustafa is the product of secrets, of pain and of tragedy.   His attempt at a life of silence obviates the need for healing. Mustafa’s form allows the two families access to their painful, personal history. Likewise, Mustafa’s death opens the door for a discussion of taboo, rape, incest and genocide. The narrator explains: “In time he had learned to appreciate the desert, its infinity soothing his fear of looking back, its tranquility easing his fear of death. At times like this he remembered, as if his body reminisced on its own, the fate awaiting all the men in his family. At times like this he felt close to committing suicide. Finding death before death found him” (269). Mustafa’s weakness prevents him from confronting his own past, which he escapes as long as he can. However, upon his return to Istanbul, he finally accepts that he is not a prince and no longer wishing to live a lie, he succumbs to his fated destiny. Aware that Auntie Banu had poisoned his ashure, he eats anyway.

Using Auntie Banu’s voice, Shafak incorporates traditional fairy tales into the story. The popular fairy tale style introduction “Once there was; once there wasn’t” frames the novel, a verbal signifier that allows for a different sort of reality. The story of two families, then, transcends its reality by accessing the framework of fairy tale. Mary Douglas writes, “There can be thoughts which have never been put into words. Once words have been framed the thought is changed and limited by the very words selected. So the speech has created something, a thought which might not have been the same” (64). In this case, the introduction of “Once there was; once there wasn’t” offers a comfortable prop in the form of accessible, obvious forms, much in the same way that Shafak labels characters in a way that reflects their personalities.

Both Asya and Armanoush interact with social groups named for their attributes. Armanoush belongs to an online chat room where everyone has given themselves labels, such as hers: Madame My-Exiled-Soul. Likewise, Asya often visits a cafe in Istanbul where her friends are labeled, but not named. For example, she dates the Dipsomaniac Cartoonist. Framed by their titles, the characters in this novel outline basic cultural stereotypes.

These cultural identifiers function in much the same way as theater props. Only necessary in staged environments, props serve as a means to an end. In this novel, Shafak utilizes the djinni, magical and mischievous deities, as a sort of prop. Fairy tales involve magic and enchantments, so in a culture where djinni are perceived to be real, the fairy tale drifts into myth. As is often the case, this family is full of secrets, rigidity and rebellion. Auntie Banu relies upon djinni to tell her of historical events. These voices build a bridge over the ever-widening gap created by war, incest and rape.  The two victims, Zeliha and Mustafa, have only one verbal exchange throughout the novel, during the rape scene. Banu, the eldest sister, relates the story of Zeliha’s rape at the hands of her older brother, Mustafa, to the reader through the invention of djinni.

In order to access the images of a specific mythology, the reader needs to identify with the symbols. Layers of complexity exist within each image and as it sheds the specific unique identity, it gains a concrete, culturally accessible value. Barthes explains the way that the signified comes to be known through the signifier within a system of mythology. Barthes’ metalanguage, or mythology, arrives when one utilizes a group of forms as a place of global sign. The original bodies lose their individuality and instead come to represent a larger notion. Only when the reader understands the historical links between characters can each character of The Bastard of Istanbul represent the larger ideology of myth as described by Barthes. In this created society, forms of oppression interrelate to create a system of oppression, reflecting multiple layers of discrimination in much the same way as contemporary societies. As Auntie Banu continues to investigate the past and relay it to the reader with the help of the djinni, she obviates layers of discrimination. Kimberlé Crenshaw writes, “[T]he failure to embrace the complexities of compoundedness is not simply a matter of political will, but is also due to the influence of a way of thinking about discrimination which structures politics so that struggles are categorized as singular issues. Moreover, this structure imports a descriptive and normative view of society that reinforces the status quo” (“Demarginalizing the Intersection of Race”48). Therefore, Auntie Banu’s narration in addition to the elements of mythology and cultural stereotypes all enable the transcendence of Mustafa’s death from the death of an individual into a redemptive, healing space, one that overcomes taboo and secret. Again, Barthes explains, “When it [meaning] becomes form, the meaning leaves its contingency behind; it empties itself, it becomes impoverished, history evaporates, only the letter remains” (117). Mustafa is now a mere form, a key word, set out to assist the reader decipher the remaining signs of the text. Mustafa’s absence speaks more powerfully than his presence.

Mustafa as the form, or the signifier, cannot be the sum total of the story. A form must be utilized in order to speak about structure. Therefore, he becomes an actual, physical space over which Zeliha feels able to tell Asya the truth about her father. Asya, being the ‘bastard’, was unprepared to hear that Mustafa, her uncle, was also her father. Zeliha notes that this discussion must take place at his death, that the time for discussion is fleeting. She says to Asya, “’I finally realized, I owed you an explanation. And if I don’t make it now, there will be no other time” (353). She means, of course, that the family curse, the political history, the rape and the family history all the way back to Hovhannes Stamboulian can be laid to rest. As Barthes noted earlier, the unnatural occurrences in this story and within history, have led the characters to precisely this spot. They transcend their spatio-temporal plane, enabling their bodies to represent larger issues in the cultural context. Mustafa is the prop that results in a cultural neologism. And the ‘bastard’ is no longer a bastard.

Ruth Benedict explains the complexity of an individual within society. She states, “In reality, society and the individual are not antagonists. His culture provides the raw material of which the individual makes his life” (251-2). Culture has indeed shaped these characters and is inseparable from them. The farther one moves from the initial event or rupture, the more it writes a narrative, transforms into myth. Barthes claims, “[W]e are no longer dealing here with a theoretical mode of representation: we are dealing with this particular image, which is given for this particular signification” (110). Mustafa’s physical purpose in the novel would be lost without the family history, and more specifically, without Zeliha’s presence at his death. Shafak assigns and specifies very concrete images to each of her characters for the purpose of obviating their cultural significance.

Mustafa’s existence in The Bastard of Istanbul can certainly be seen as marginal. Mary Douglas claims that structures are most vulnerable at their margins (121). And the Kazanci women are, without a doubt, marginalized characters in both actual, mainstream culture and within the auspices of the novel. The fact that the reader gains access to culturally significant rituals and events through the eyes, voices, actions and habits of the Kazanci women, speaks to this marginalized structure. Douglas explains:

Any culture is a series of related structures, which comprise social forms, values, cosmology, the whole of knowledge and through which all experience is mediated. Certain cultural themes are expressed by rites of bodily manipulation… The rituals enact the form of social relations and in giving these relations visible expression they enable people to know their own society. The rituals work upon the body politic through the symbolic medium of the physical body. (128)

In other words, the Kazanci women represent the margins of society and they mythologize Mustafa’s body through a blend of ritual and superstition. More importantly, societal margins often represent important but often unheard voices within society. As Douglas claims, “What is being carved in flesh is an image of society” (116). Zeliha realizes this when she designates Mustafa’s burial as the space in which to discuss the cultural taboo of at least incest, if not rape.

The marginalized, then, participate in Mustafa’s funeral in multiple ways. First, and most obvious, are the Kazanci women: mothers, daughters, wives and sisters of the fallen ‘prince’. Yet soccer fans and pedestrians participate as well, obviating the idea that this novel discusses not only familial rites, but societal ones. The narrator describes the scene of soccer fans: “Thus they all flowed along the avenue in a flood of red and yellow, amid chaos and clamor” (344). It is important to note that the people flowed, much like water. They flowed because they will be the redemptive elements of the novel, while also creating a present day mythology. Red and yellow soccer fans surround the green hearse, which carries Mustafa in a white shroud. Color symbolizes both an adherence to Islamic traditions as well as diversity and a celebration of life. These colors swirl into a pot of ashure, given at Noah’s ark, a mix of everything. Margins are everywhere present in this scene, as if replacement characters and scenarios for Noah’s ark. Instead of an ark, Shafak designs a Turkish household that grows to include an Armenian-American family member. Crenshaw notes that, “The struggle over which differences matter and which do not is neither an abstract nor an insignificant debate among women…they raise critical issues of power” (“Mapping the Margins” 1265). These families and voices become the elements that transcend their cultural identifiers, that transcend present and past in order to perform a creation myth.

The element of water moves through the text in a significant way. Rain was absent on the day of Zeliha’s rape. However, its absence may be just as significant as the presence of rain in other scenes. Events that disrupt nature must exist in order for change and growth to occur. Decades later, as the green hearse carries Mustafa towards the family house, pedestrians sing, “Let earth, sky, water listen to our voice/ Let the whole world shake with our heavy steps” (344). These pedestrians reflect the function of marginalized voices in much the same way as the Kazanci women represent modern day culture in Turkey. And they sing their importance.

What follows the end of a myth? The reader is led to believe that, as is often the case in fairy tales, there is a happily ever after to this story. Shafak’s novel begins as fairy tale, which involves magic and enchantments such as the djinni. She then melds the story into myth, in order to elucidate the way in which a society may renew itself. Though marginalized, the Kazanci family finds a way to create a vibrant future. Auntie Banu uses djinni often and retells common folklore consistent with fairy tales. In this case, genocide, rape and incest significantly rupture chronological time, which also allows the story of the bastard to enter the realm of mythology. The Kazanci family seeks and creates a new way of life through inclusion and acceptance.

Myth is laden with meaning only if the object itself loses individuality and gains universality. In other words, a physical presence must disappear allowing myth to appropriate image, laden with new meaning.  Barthes claims, “In semiology, the third term is nothing but the association of the first two” (121), meaning that The Bastard of Istanbul conveys meaning through both cultural mythology and culturally relevant signifiers. Mustafa’s body allows for a space over which Zeliha can discuss the taboo subjects of incest and rape. Mustafa’s death is a product of the unnatural rupture of time, healed only by the full disclosure to Asya about the identity of her true father.

While this novel incorporates many elements of rupture, disease and division, it also allows for healing, discussion and community. Through marginalized voices, repurposed cultural stories, and tragedy, Shafak enables discussion and proposes a reparation of time through myth. The reader feels that Zeliha’s future holds much promise as she stands apart from the shrouded Mustafa, clutching two fragile tea cups purchased at the beginning of the novel, moments before her attempted abortion. Both the teacups and the baby survived two decades of struggle. And finally, rain closes the novel, once again highlighting the fact that myth underlines this novel. Rain enables each character a function on the chronological timeline towards a modern people. The novel ends hopefully, a hodge-podge family full of once marginalized voices, now the ‘first peoples’ of a modern era.

The post Mythology, Taboo and Cultural Identity in Elif Shafak’s The Bastard of Istanbul appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Sin embargo, las clases no funcionan de manera aislada respecto de otras estructuras sociales, hecho que enfatiza, sin duda alguna, la necesidad de un estudio interdisciplinario y de un discurso desde la “interseccionalidad”.

En este año 2014, se cumplen 25 años desde que Kimberlé Crenshaw acuño el término “Interseccionalidad” donde explica que conceptos tales como “clase” o “raza” no deberían abordarse de forma aislada sino fusionarse para poder entender la complejidad de una praxis particular: “puesto que la experiencia de la interseccionalidad es mayor que la suma del racismo y el sexismo, todo estudio que omita dicha noción no consigue explicar la forma particular en que las Mujeres negras (Black Women) viven de manera subordinada”. Aunque Crenshaw relató, en particular, la experiencia vivida por dichas mujeres, desde la corriente del feminismo en EEUU, el enfoque “interseccional” ha sido adoptado por diversas disciplinas y corrientes para analizar las coyunturas en que las identidades complejas pueden ser controvertidas y manipuladas.

Tras 25 años, es importante rendir homenaje tanto al carácter transversal de la “interseccionalidad”, pues ha logrado formar parte de un amplio abanico de disciplinas, como a nuevas formas de impulsar su estudio, para poder así examinarla y analizarla de otro modo y desde otras perspectivas.

En esta llamada a textos 2014 sobre la “Interseccionalidad, Clases y Praxis (des)colonial”, The Postcolonialist acogerá contribuciones de carácter interdisciplinario que ahonden en dicha, además de nuevas formas y significados que la “Interseccionalidad” viene adquieriendo como herramienta analítica y marco teórico.

Para artículos evaluados bajo la modalidad Peer Review (revisión por pares), The Postcolonialist acoge artículos innovadores en inglés, español, portugués y francés de 5000 a 7000 palabras. Propuestas en italiano podrán ser aceptadas igualmente. Otros textos, derivados de conferencias, podrán abarcar entre 1.500 y 3.500 palabras. En la versión completa, deberá aparecer un resumen y las palabras clave; aquellos artículos que soliciten ser evaluados “por pares” no deberán revelar la identidad (nombre) del autor, enviándose estos datos en un archivo adjunto diferente del texto propuesto.

Aunque la revista no se ciñe a un protocolo editorial, es aconsejable que cada texto siga el modelo correspondiente, tal y como figura en la revista, según el ámbito al que pertenece.

Se admiten obras artísticas de creación en relación con el tema propuesto.

Enviar a: Editorinchief@postcolonialist.com

Fecha límite: 19 de septiembre, 2014

The post Convocatoria: “Interseccionalidad, clases y praxis (des)colonial” (otoño 2014) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The past decade has seen a wave of socio-political and economic changes across the globe. We are witnessing geopolitical conflict on a local as well as international scale, intensified by rising wealth disparities, mass migrations, crippling austerity measures, repression of dissent, and increasingly controlled borders. These events make evident the centrality of class to any discussion on the sweeping changes taking place in the global political landscape. Class, however, does not operate in isolation from other social structures, a fact that underscores the need for interdisciplinary research and intersectional discourse.

The year 2014 marks twenty-five years since Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term “intersectionality” to describe how terms such as “class” or “race” may not be analyzed in isolation, but must be combined in order to understand the complexity of a particular praxis: “Because the intersectional experience is greater than the sum of racism and sexism, any analysis that does not take intersectionality into account cannot sufficiently address the particular manner in which Black women are subordinated.” While Crenshaw may have been speaking particularly of the lived experience of Black women and ‘mainstream’ feminism in the United States, the intersectional approach proposed by Crenshaw has been adopted by many disciplines and groups in order to analyze the junctures at which complex identities are contested and staged.

Twenty-five years on, we believe it is important to pay tribute to the ways in which intersectionality has become part of a range of disciplines, as well as to ask how it can be examined, critiqued, and pushed further. Therefore, in its Fall 2014 request for papers, “Intersectionality, Class and (De)Colonial Praxis,” The Postcolonialist would like to invite papers across disciplines, topics, and areas of study that delve into the state of intersectionality today, and the new ways and means in which it is being deployed and interrogated as an analytical tool and a theoretical framework.

For Peer Review: We welcome innovative pieces in English, Spanish, Portuguese, and French between 5,000-7,500 words in length for the standard peer review process. Submissions in Italian will be considered on an individual basis. Academic Dispatch pieces may be between 1,500 and 3,500 words (“conference-length” papers). Full length articles should have an abstract and key words, and be anonymized for peer review. While we have no standard citation format, we ask that each paper adhere to the accepted citation model in the relevant field.

Editorial or Artistic pieces relating to the Fall 2014 theme are also welcome.

Inquiries and Submissions may be sent to: Editorinchief@postcolonialist.com by September 19, 2014.

The post Call for Papers: “Intersectionality, Class, and (De)Colonial Praxis” (Fall 2014) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

The place that I occupied in the world made itself apparent very early. The first time I experienced direct racism was in my first year of primary school when a fellow pupil called me a “black bum”[1] and I got in trouble for pushing her. Many incidents followed that point, throughout the schooling years. Some were blatant, but others were more subtle, such as a teacher informing my mother that I must have been “drawing attention” to myself when I’d complained about being bullied. I simultaneously encountered gendered comments that would make me feel uncomfortable. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to be as strong and boisterous as the boys. I was supposed to like playing with Barbies and My Little Ponies, and enjoying the ballet classes I was enrolled in despite my other inclinations. In short, I felt continually limited and ridiculed by virtue of my race and sex and therefore considered the oppressions interconnected and to be contested together.

That’s how I continue to see it now. My responses to issues of gender are very much informed by my experience of race, and vice versa. My experience of structural forms of oppression was heightened due to these intersecting forms of oppression, and are particularly acute due to being of a working class background. Therefore, when it comes to Aboriginal feminism, I very much see our questions and tactics occupying the more “radical” end of the feminist spectrum. By radical, I am referring to streams such as socialist/marxist feminism, anarcha-feminism and radical feminism. I feel personally that the issue of race keeps me focussed on community rather than individual advancement, and therefore my feminism reflects this. Additionally, I seek self-determination as both an Aboriginal person and a woman, and therefore need to challenge the structures that negate this freedom. To borrow a quote from the Combahee River Collective Statement: “If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression”. In an Australian context this carries a slightly different resonance due to the experiences of colonisation, but to decolonise from both a race and gender perspective is imperative.

I strongly believe that as Aboriginal women, whilst our fights are related to ongoing feminist struggles within other racially marginalised groups, they are not the same. By virtue of the fact that we are first peoples who have suffered under the process of colonisation within our own homelands, our struggles can be quite unique. Recently, for example, I was engaged in a markedly frustrating discussion on the concept of “fair skin privilege” as someone of a migrant background took issue to how I was utilising the term “black”. Fair skin privilege of course exists to an extent in an Aboriginal context, however the “Stolen Generations”[2], for example, highlight how limited this privilege has historically been. Additionally, migrant populations, whilst suffering marginalisation in Australia, also benefit from the displacement of Aboriginal people. Therefore there is a need to tell our own stories, and expand our own theories rather than simply drawing upon the experiences of others.

When I am highlighting why I feel a specific Aboriginal feminism is necessary, I tend to point to three formative elements that structure this need: the white patriarchy, the black patriarchy and “mainstream” feminism. As a point of oppression, the white patriarchy is self explanatory given its continuing historical legacy and political privilege. Aboriginal women feeling excluded by mainstream feminism is a topic that has been covered many times, most recently in an article by Kelly Briggs, which poignantly proposed that arguments regarding the lack of racial diversity in parliament are sorely lacking from mainstream feminism. Yet how the patriarchy operates within the Aboriginal community is not something that is discussed as often. It does have impact, even if the politics of race bind us. I am seeking to define how these elements play out in our communities more and more, because through better understandings we can build better and more inclusive movements that don’t leave the most vulnerable behind.

Many Aboriginal feminists have been rightly critical of mainstream feminisms in the past, due to lack of collaboration that centralized the individual over the communal, or the imposition of privileged viewpoints as if these were a universal experience for women. In addition, an “Orientalist” understanding that misread Aboriginal culture has sometimes been applied by feminists to cultural issues and practices that are ours to challenge. This is not because we necessarily perceive these things differently but rather, we need the space to interpret and challenge these things in our own communities. One example I like to highlight is the constant questions I receive from non-Aboriginal feminists regarding whether women should be allowed to play the didgeridoo, an Aboriginal wind instrument typically played by men. Considering the multitude of pressing issues that Aboriginal women face in Australia, a question such as this is not a defining Aboriginal feminist question, and the questioning of this cultural practice by non-Aboriginal women simply comes across as another act of imperialism. There is nothing to be gained for the feminist movement as a whole by non-Aboriginal feminists challenging these cultural practices; rather it just negates our rights of self-determination and indeed cultural ownership.

Over time, Aboriginal feminists (for example, Aileen Morton-Robinson in “Talkin’ Up to the White Woman”, 2000) have continued to highlight additional hurdles that they face due to the intersection of race and gender. Aboriginal women experience the issues that non-Aboriginal women experience due to the process of colonisation, but often there are additional complexities. For example, whilst equal pay is important for all of us, for many years Aboriginal people were historically not paid for their labour at all, and this acutely affected Aboriginal women working as domestic servants. Our wages were, in a lot of cases, held in trusts by the governments and therefore our “stolen wages” claims are ongoing many years later. “Victim blame” is something we face often, and indeed, a number of the Indigenous movements’ more conservative commentators tend to replicate these viewpoints. When we experience victim blaming as women, it is compounded by race to the point where Aboriginal women dying from domestic homicide at a rate ten times that of other women in Australia barely rates a mention. We tend to be subjected to the same issues of body shame and arbitrary and commercialised notions of beauty, but we are also judged on our skin tone and whether or not we possess certain features deemed to be tellingly “Aboriginal” (eg: a wide nose, deep-set eyes, etc). We can also experience fetishisation on the basis of our skin tones despite being mainly socially excluded because of them. In short, our experiences can add layers to feminist understandings and there are many ways in which a notion of a universalised women’s experience can exclude us or only tell part of the tale.

When it comes to the notion of a “black patriarchy”, I see this being perpetuated on two fronts. The first is through the patriarchal structures that we inherit through the process of colonisation by the mainstream culture, and the second manifests itself in our own community-based forms, through our traditional practices and how we view and deploy gender roles. To start with our internal patriarchy, it is always interesting to me when members of the Indigenous community argue that traditional societies had gender equality due to our understandings of gender complementarity, which presumes that the separate and set roles of men and women had equal importance in communities. This is not necessarily the case. From one side of this vast country to the other, different practices existed in different clan groups and therefore the experiences of “equality” for women via a notion of gender complementarity would have differed. If we state otherwise, then as black people we run the risk of universalising our own experiences similar to what mainstream feminism has been accused of doing. Secondly, gender complementarity has not been known to equal gender equality in many regions of the world. We have practices such as polygynous marriage that are arranged from birth, alongside norms such as specific forms of governance and punishment for women. At times, due to the fact that we (as Aboriginal people) are protecting family and culture in the face of ongoing colonialism, we lose the ability to critically examine our own practices because we are worried that anything perceived as negative will be used to further discredit us as peoples.

The patriarchy we inherited and in some ways continue to perpetuate from the dominant culture tends to manifest itself when we adopt external cultural practices and use them in ways that may enhance pride in Aboriginality but reinforce gender disparities. Examples of this are events such as the Miss NAIDOC pageants, which are based upon the idea that we need to celebrate the “beauty” of Aboriginal women. Beauty, as a concept, may be harmful to women as it often centralises the appearance of a woman as being her most important attribute. One of the points I made back when I first examined this in the above linked article was that we actually come from a culture that values age and wisdom, assigning great value to our older women. When it comes to beauty however, older women are almost completely excluded. Additionally, our women have been achieving highly in a number of fields for a long time; we have been obtaining tertiary education qualifications at a rate nearly double that of Aboriginal men. So why do we consider it important to celebrate the “beauty” of Aboriginal women whilst barely mentioning these wonderful achievements? The idea that something becomes empowering if it is community organised and run fails to examine what it is that we are instituting from the cultures of those we have been oppressed by, and if these are indeed worthwhile things to adopt. Without such questioning, we run the risk of merely contributing to the subjugation of our own rather than enacting true positive change.

It continues to be imperative to challenge the prevailing structures of power on the dual fronts of race and gender, both internally and externally. Australia, despite the rhetoric to the contrary, continues to privilege a very white and patriarchal culture in which exclusionary legacies, rather than being a source of shame, tend to be celebrated. I would even go so far as to argue that due to our complex history and culture wars, begun in the early 1990s then reinforced by the Howard government, we have gone backwards when it comes to being a space inclusive of race and gender. During the Howard years, Aboriginal people were continually rebuked for “focussing on the negative” when telling the true stories of what we have faced under centuries of colonisation. Women were told that fights for gender equality were “political correctness gone mad,” or otherwise not essential. Australia reflects this perspective today. Australia Day, which was of little importance to most of the population only a couple of decades ago, is now a day to drape flags across your shoulders and be “proud” at the cost of any acknowledgement of the true history of this day and what it has meant to Aboriginal peoples. ANZAC Day, which was also criticised because feminists drew attention to victims of war and rape as a tactic of war in particular, is again focussing on the “brave people who served our country” in the various conflicts. There is a need to challenge Australian historical narratives on a number of fronts, and Aboriginal feminists have an incredibly important role to play in this.

I strongly feel that Aboriginal feminism is going to continue to grow and develop. We have a number of incredibly strong Aboriginal women who are moving to the forefront of public discourse. A lot of them are unapologetic about their race and their gender, are highly educated, and ensure that they use these knowledges to continue educating and inspiring others. Through social media and online platforms such as blogging, their bodies of work continue to grow and circulate. The Internet offers a wonderful opportunity for those that have been traditionally denied a voice to claim a space. And claim it, we shall!

The post Intersectionality and Indigenous Feminism: An Aboriginal Woman’s Perspective appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

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Maja Milatovic: In your article “Strategies for Inclusivity: Indigenous Women and the Academy,” you highlight intersecting oppressions such as racism and sexism impacting Indigenous women in academia, which remains a “bastion of white male privilege.” What are some of the strategies for challenging colonising knowledge and institutionalised whiteness and obtaining recognition for Indigenous knowledge in academia?

Celeste Liddle: I think in the first instance it is important for people to be aware that the existing knowledges are indeed skewed toward certain ways of knowing, and that the act of colonisation has privileged these knowledges in the academy. As a result, no matter how open universities are to knowledge-exchange and contributing to knowledge pools, they can still exclude because Indigenous knowledges have been considered, over a vast number of years, to be second class, and the way Indigenous people acquire those knowledges – via community, family, experiences, etc. – are different to the teacher-and-student methods preferred by most Universities.

One of the simplest strategies is to lobby universities to employ more Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. The number of Indigenous staff has doubled in a 10 year period and that’s the same time the NTEU included an Indigenous mandatory claim in the bargaining round. By having Indigenous people engaged in a number of capacities across a university, the existing entrenched systems are challenged. Additionally, with more Indigenous staff come more Indigenous students and the numbers here are roughly proportional. With more Indigenous students comes the capacity for more research higher degree students, and therefore the opportunity for existing departments to supervise more Indigenous people doing research from their own perspectives; thus more opportunity for an active knowledge transfer. Indigenous academic staff are vital here as mentors. So in short, I’d say targeted employment strategies to get more people working in the sector, and more encouragement for students to go further with their studies with the aim of eventually becoming university staff themselves.

MM: One of the elements you address in your writing is “authenticity” or the notion of a “true” Indigenous heritage. In your piece, “An Open Letter to Bess Price MLA,” you state that “Culture is not a static entity and has never been pre- or post- colonisation,” highlighting your belief in “a shared historical experience which is as valid a cultural element as anything else.” Can you elaborate on this argument more, especially considering current Indigenous politics?

CL: There is a tendency to refer to Indigenous culture as “traditional” and “contemporary” in this country (Australia). I feel that whilst colonisation has obviously had a huge impact on Indigenous culture, to label things as such paints a static image of what it was like prior to colonisation whilst also reducing the authenticity of what we have today. There is an entire knowledge pool and a system of governance that was built up before colonisation. Those rules and knowledges came from experience: from experiencing environmental fluctuations; from people challenging systems; from trade with neighbouring countries. Additionally, kriol languages, traditional-style dances about contemporary experiences, sports carnivals, etc: all these have become a part of our shared cultural landscape and are important.

Following colonisation, there have been many experiences that Indigenous people have shared as a people. There were, for example, very few families that were not pulled apart by the policies that led to the Stolen Generations and have not been impacted by transgenerational trauma. Language revitalisation programmes nowadays are, in a lot of cases the direct result of language removal back in the 1930s. Struggling to reconnect is therefore a common experience for Indigenous people. We’ve also had a number of key political movements such as the Freedom Rides, the Tent Embassy, Land Rights. All of these experiences form our histories. We have family that took part in them or we were there ourselves, and because the stories of those struggles are relayed on, they become a part of our shared cultural landscape. A good many of the things we now celebrate annually started as Indigenous political movements and these events are part of our cultural landscape.

MM: In your article published in Daily Life entitled “A platform for the people who are not always heard,” you write that Indigenous events and conferences provide opportunities for “being heard,” create inclusive spaces where “Indigenous ways of knowing can dominate” and challenge hegemonic culture. In your view, how do these events offer transformational and collaborative potential amongst Indigenous people globally?

CL: I have now had the privilege of collaborating with Indigenous peoples from other countries on a number of occasions. One of the things that always strikes me are the similarities colonised peoples share. There are enough similarities recognised that we now have the UN Declaration on Indigenous Peoples! So the sharing of these similarities as Indigenous peoples globally helps break down the isolation we have within our own countries and we can then collaborate on how we address the issues we face on a global level.

There are, however, many differences as well. One such difference I can think of is the existences of treaties that many peoples have, but that we don’t have here in Australia. Hearing how the Maori, for example, have a set of principles and conditions that they can hold their government to and how this works for them inspires and drives us in Australia. Hearing where they feel their treaty has not served the people as well as it could have allows us to learn from their experiences and push for different inclusions.

I often say that attending one of these conferences in the first place is what radicalised my mind. As an Aboriginal woman I was so moved and so inspired by what I experienced talking with other indigenous peoples and sharing knowledge, but I also became so aware of how the situation in Australia compares. It was a wake-up call and since then I have not only become more active in a number of ways here, but I have also relished the opportunity to engage more internationally. At the next WIPC:E conference in Hawaii in 2014 we are hoping to run a panel session on Indigenous trade unionism with educational activists from Australia, New Zealand and Canada represented. Fingers crossed this comes into fruition and from this engagement, a regional Indigenous education union caucus begins to grow! Academia is one of the most mobile fields a person can work in so it makes sense, as Indigenous unionists, to organise globally.

MM: In recent years, social media and blogging in particular have become increasingly popular ways of breaking silences surrounding structural inequality and challenging exclusions as well as a means of networking, strategizing and making marginalised voices heard. You use Twitter and were involved with curating the IndigenousX Twitter account. You also write your own blog called Rantings of an Aboriginal Feminist. What is the potential of social media in connecting, constructing and empowering Indigenous people in Australia? Are there any risks involved with the use of social media?

CL: Had someone told me when I started my blog back in June 2012 that I would end up writing commissioned pieces for mainstream, and non-mainstream, media within 6 weeks, I would not have believed them. It happened though, and in one fell swoop I became aware of the potential of social media. From an Indigenous perspective, this is particularly powerful. Traditionally our issues, voices, opinions and so forth have been represented by non-Indigenous people in non-indigenous publications. We have had little control over how we are portrayed and the diversity of our opinion has been stunted by those the media sources deem are the “leaders” or at least the most palatable.

Social media throws that wide open. Aboriginal people are allowed to represent themselves, argue their opinions and engage in discussions in a way that we haven’t been able to do in traditional media. It’s no surprise that we’re seeing more diverse voices getting out there at this point in time from a number of political perspectives (and if you ask me, also no surprise that the Aboriginal left-wing have particularly embraced it). Additionally, Facebook became an invaluable tool to connect family and community over vast distances and from some incredibly remote communities. Because so many Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people use Facebook regularly, it has become an even more important tool for us as a point of connection and information dissemination than it probably has for everyone else. Twitter is important as well, but personally I find that it’s more useful as a tool for Indigenous people to broadcast our works externally, and that Facebook allows a more in-depth engagement.

The main danger is that social media removes the filter. Back in the “old days” opinions were countered via “Letters to the Editor” pages. Nowadays, people contact you directly and want to argue the points. I particularly got annoyed when I had hoards of non-indigenous conservative men writing diatribes on my blog telling me what the “real issues” were. From that point, I took the stand of actively moderating the space and stating that black and female opinions took precedence in my space. People are also only a Google search away from someone’s email address or contact details nowadays. I had to block people from my site after some regular commentators received abusive emails. We are more likely to be attacked directly if we do put ourselves out there on social media and I feel that turns many people  off. Why would you put yourself out there to be abused virtually when you’ve been dealing with racism/sexism/etc your entire life?

MM: You self-identify as a black feminist. Are there any particular feminists or inspiring individuals who motivate your work and have influenced your feminist vision?

CL: I have been a bit of a magpie, to be honest: collecting shiny objects, or information that appeals anyway, and putting it all together. What I’ve found I’ve done more than anything is identified particularly with broader radical thought and adapted those thoughts into black feminist standpoints. I’ve also been one for analysing my own experiences and using these for the basis of broader analysis. So every time I am asked this question, I tend to fail it!

Therefore, my list of those that have inspired my thoughts may look a little random. Whilst a lot of them I would agree with, this is not a requirement and others I admire for their sheer capacity to analyse structural forms of oppression. The ability to engage, disagree and formulate an opposing argument is incredibly important particularly when investigating where systems of oppression intersect. Audre Lorde, Augusto Boal, Lisa Bellear, Catharine Mackinnon, Judith Butler, Dennis Altman, and William Cooper are a few names that spring to my mind. The book “The Bridge Called My Back” stands out as a key text. Former lecturers that challenged my view and expanded my horizons are Sheila Jeffreys, Geoffrey Milne, Peta Tait, Verity Burgmann and many others.

A lot of the people who inspired me the most though have been people within my own family: my mother, my grandmothers, a number of very politically-minded relations. Finally, because I have worked at universities and then at a union I have been lucky enough to have been continually surrounded by people who question everything. That environment has definitely encouraged my own views to grow.

MM: In her article “Australian feminists need to talk about race,” Aboriginal Australian feminist Kelly Briggs highlights the importance of intersectionality, writing that “Australian feminists must recognise and join the fight for racial diversity.” Taking this into account, what do you identify as current challenges in Australian feminisms, especially in the context of forming productive transcultural and transracial alliances?

CL: The main challenge I find right now is the focus on individualism rather than collectivism. With Indigenous politics, due to the fact that we make up such a small proportion of the population and because “choice” is something we were denied for many generations, a lot of our politics focuses on the collective, or at least needs to. A good deal of the dominant feminist theory at this point, however, seems to be more focused on individual agency. I honestly feel this is the point where Indigenous feminist voices can get lost. When Kelly states “I am uneasy about the narrow confines the term “equality” has taken in regards to feminism,” I strongly believe this is what she is highlighting too: Structures are not being questioned and challenged enough and black women are being left out because of this. When you’re engaging with more liberal narratives that highlight the rights of individuals and a group doesn’t have access to a great deal of choice in the first place due to structural oppression then clashes will occur. I think this is why I have found more synergy in radical thought. Indigenous women, at least in Australia, due to their intersecting sources of oppression, have much to share here and because they are not always actively engaged with, their voices get left out of feminist analysis.

On saying that though, I have run up against similar issues with leftist organisations. Because they argue that class is the foremost site of oppression, they can close off when issues of gender or race are brought to the table. I have had openly hostile responses when I have suggested that some patriarchal systems existed prior to colonisation and the installation of capitalism in this country. Recently I stated that I am not interested in a revolution that leaves the most vulnerable behind. Intersectionality is key for me.

MM: You frequently state that you are a socialist and a unionist. Your writing frequently underscores the importance of community and unionisation for Indigenous women. What drew you to getting involved with the trade union? What are some of the issues you encountered in the context of equality and diversity issues for women and Indigenous people, while working for the union?

CL: As mentioned earlier, I feel universities remain bastions of the white patriarchy, and when I worked within the university structure, I was working in Indigenous student equity. As a staff member though, I found that I, and other Indigenous staff in the sector, faced the exact same issues the students were facing. Universities remained somewhat hostile environments for Indigenous people. They excluded via preferred knowledges, via preferred life experiences to gain entry and remain in the institution, via their sheer elitism as places of educational excellence. In addition, as a woman I found continually that whilst we made up the majority of the university staff, we rarely held the top positions and therefore women were continually excluded from the highest level of decision making within the institution. Women’s and Gender Studies departments were continually under threat, and sadly, a good many of them ended up scaled down or even closed. The ability to cast a gender lens over existing subjects and topics was being continually diminished within the sector.

I was always a unionist and the opportunity to draw on the collectivism provided within an organised union structure to try and achieve equity for Indigenous people on campus was the main reason for me becoming more active. It is much easier to achieve equity when you have a collective of workers willing to stand alongside you. Becoming active at a branch level eventually led to me earning the job I am currently in. Since I started here three years ago, we have run Indigenous members surveys on their experiences of racism, discrimination, cultural respect and lateral violence in the academy. The results were shocking, although unfortunately not surprising, with a vast majority stating that they had experienced these issues within the sector. I am also a member of the Women’s Action Committee of the NTEU and our Indigenous membership just happens to be 70% female. I was able to cast a gender lens over the members’ survey data and I concluded that the intersecting forms of oppression – gender and race – were contributing to the high rates of racism and discrimination our members were facing. I also highlighted that lateral violence, a phenomenon initially highlighted within the women’s movement in the field of nursing, was even more prevalent in Indigenous communities due to intersecting forms of oppression. Essentially, our Indigenous female staff were at the coal face and therefore had much experience to draw on to benefit all working women.

I believe unions are important because they are the voice of the workers, and the more that women and Indigenous people get involved, the more that this voice reflects our needs within the sector and can therefore push for change.

MM: You are the National Indigenous Organiser for the National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU). In an article published by Crikey focusing on Aboriginal Australians and their personal identity, you describe your experiences of working in an “identified role” and acknowledge the advantages that come with undertaking such a position.  You also identify issues which come with such roles such a patronising assumptions regarding Indigenous applicants’ competence. You write that “The Indigenisation of workplaces is still very much a work-in-progress.” In your experience, what is the transformative potential of identified roles in increasing community cohesion and improving Indigenous access to tertiary education?

CL: Identified roles acknowledge that there is a specific expertise and life experience that an Indigenous person will bring to that role. They acknowledge that this life experience leads to a better cultural understanding than most non-Indigenous people will have, and they also acknowledge that sometimes there is a need to have an Indigenous voice in an organisation in order to better communicate with broader Indigenous communities. More than anything, they make a statement that universities want to address disparities and see Indigenous employment as an important first step to achieving this.

As also mentioned earlier, one of the things I have continually found is that Indigenous student numbers are almost always directly proportionate to Indigenous staff numbers, so if universities wish to increase their student loads then it is in their interest to have proper Indigenous employment programmes in place. Indigenous people serving at many different levels, and in many different areas of a university means that existing structures get challenged. Universities have to become more inclusive to ensure that they are retaining those staff and students. In the past, a lot of this engagement has been tokenistic, where universities bring in guest lecturers for specific purposes. When there is an ongoing commitment by Universities to employ Indigenous people and recognise the unique skill sets they bring to a university, then this offensive tokenism is reduced and Indigenous knowledges can become core university business. Which is the way it should be in this country.

MM: In the panel discussion preceding the Australian federal elections published in The Guardian, you argue that “the Indigenous vote is of little importance to the major parties” and you identify a lack of diverse Indigenous policy and engagement. Considering Australia’s election results, the current political climate and discourses on minorities, what are some of the future challenges the country faces in terms of achieving equality?

CL: To start on a very cynical note, the new Prime Minister has already defunded an expert Indigenous educational panel, and has installed a new Indigenous Advisory Committee (IAC). This IAC is chaired by a person of the Prime Minister’s selection. So on one hand, we’ve lost yet another autonomous voice, and on the other, we’ve gained a committee that will be completely regulated by the government. Our Indigenous leadership has continually been chosen for us, particularly since the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC) was dissolved, and this government looks to be taking this even further. We don’t have designated seats in parliament, we don’t have autonomous Indigenous elections for our political leaders and we don’t always get a say in what our important issues actually are.

What’s even scarier though is at this point the major parties seem to almost agree with each other on Indigenous issues. Indigenous people, whilst always political, are more disillusioned with a system where this agreement between major parties occurs. It means that our own debate is politically stunted. Take the recent push for Constitutional Recognition. There are many grassroots Indigenous groups opposed to this move because they fear that being written into the Australian Constitution will negate our claim as sovereign peoples of this land and therefore the ability to negotiate a treaty. Yet both major parties are stating that being recognised in the Constitution is important for Indigenous people and there is a huge campaign in full swing at this moment selling the idea to the public with the hope that when this question goes to referendum, it gets passed. How can voting Australians make an informed decision on this issue when many are not even aware that there is a debate occurring due to major party agreement?

So what I am most fearful of is that in 2013 we still have almost no autonomy. Our voting power is 2.5% of the population and we therefore don’t have the opportunity to use the current system as it stands to further our causes. We do not get to define our own issues in any comprehensive way politically, nor do we have much say in the policies that affect our lives and the lives of our families. We are still spoken for most of the time, and Australia will never be a place of true equality for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people whilst this continues.

The post Indigenous Feminism, Politics and the Importance of Intersectionality: A Conversation with Celeste Liddle appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

“Religion can contribute to a post-patriarchal world.” [1]

The silence around feminism and religion is a profound one, and its roots lie in the metanarrative of secularising[2] that influences knowledge production in the field of feminism (and more broadly the social sciences). The silence functions to highlight not only a difficulty in approaching the subject of female autonomy in relation to religion, but also indicates a negativity towards religion on the part of feminist scholars.[3] Although there has been a significant amount of work on religion and patriarchy as well as on agency, autonomy, and gender; there has been little on the specific subject of women, religion and autonomy.

In an article by Elina Vuola, it is argued a shallow or condescending view of religion in the part of feminist scholars has meant that they do not see the full picture:

“On the one hand, there is a kind of feminist ‘blindness’ of, or resistance to, the importance of religion for women. On the other hand, there is a ‘religious paradigm’ type of feminist studies in which women are seen mainly through the lens of religion, especially in research done by Western scholars on Muslim countries.”[4]

This reflects the tension within the literature: while there is a focus on women and religion, this focus is problematic as it reproduces religion as inherently patriarchal and women as lacking autonomy in relation to said religion. This has especially been the case in studies on “women and Islam,” a genre that has grown exponentially since the attacks on September 11, 2001. In this paper I want to focus on the feminist ‘blindness’ Vuola mentions, and try to unpack the various reasons why mainstream Western feminism has largely neglected the area of religious women.

Delineating the contours of feminism

“The limitations of feminism are evident in the construction of the (implicitly consensual) priority of issues around which apparently all women are expected to organize.”[5]

An important underlying point about mainstream Western feminism is that of secularism.[6] This is due to its genealogy, which links back to the European Enlightenment. Rationalism and a focus on civil rights have thus been central.[7] Critical theory has moved past secular humanism (also a product of the Enlightenment) through focusing on the tragedy of colonialism (Edward Said), critiquing European humanism (Michel Foucault) and deconstructing the center (Jacques Derrida). These theories served to de-center Europe and critically question the Enlightenment and the centrality of secular discourse. Importantly, scholars have pointed to the “Judeo-Christian” (itself a problematic construct) heritage of secularism emphasizing that the negation of religion is still a mode of relation.[8] This also served to construct Islam (as opposed to Judeo-Christianity) as outside of modernity. Within feminism, postcolonial and black feminists have never been overtly secular, and in fact religion and in particular spirituality has long been central to their worldviews and work[9], in stark contrast to mainstream feminism.[10]

Mainstream Western feminism today has evolved mainly from the early 20^th century first and second wave feminist movements in Europe and America. While it has come to incorporate a wider variety of experiences and analytical lenses since then, there is little doubt that many of its assumptions have changed little over time. Moreover, as an academic discipline it continues to be heavily influenced by both modernism generally and positivism in particular, thus inevitably reproducing problematic notions of objectivity in research and universal truths. Its inheritance of first wave feminist ideals also ensures an essentialized notion of women that are on the margins of their own experiences, including religious women.

Chandra Mohanty has written extensively on the production of the “Third World Woman” discursively, documenting how scholarship about women in the third world has been formed through categories of feminist analysis that are Western. The term Western feminism is broad and to some extent homogenizes the various movements that comprise it. Nevertheless, there is a certain body of knowledge with certain underlying assumptions that together distinguish a general approach that can be termed Western feminism. As Mohanty writes,

“Clearly Western feminist discourse and political practice is neither singular nor homogenous in its goals, interests or analyses. However, it is possible to trace a coherence of effects resulting from the implicit assumption of “the West” (in all its complexities and contradictions as the primary referent in theory and praxis. My reference to “Western feminism” is by no means intended to imply that it is a monolith. Rather, I am attempting to draw attention to the similar effects of various textual strategies used by particular writers that codify Others as non-Western and hence themselves as (implicitly) Western.”[11]

Underlying assumptions that distinguish what can be called “Western feminism” include: the theorization of “women” as an unproblematic category of analysis that assumes women have homogenous or similar experiences and needs, which serves to construct a “universal” womanhood that erases power relations between women; the subsequent use of academic research to prove the universality of women’s experiences; and the construction of third world women as the opposite of Western women: in other words, constrained, victimized, poor, ignorant as opposed to Western women who are educated, modern, and free to make their own choices.[12] “Women are characterized as a singular group on the basis of shared oppression.”[13]

Importantly, Mohanty points out that feminist scholarly practices are inscribed within relations of power, since there can be no apolitical scholarship.[14] The knowledge production on the part of Western feminists colonizes discursively the “material and historical heterogeneities” of the lives of third women, thus resulting in the production of a singular “Third World Woman.”[15] This knowledge production occurs within a global system that is made up of specific relations of power, as Anouar Abdel-Malek points out:

“Contemporary imperialism is a hegemonic imperialism, exercising to a maximum degree a rationalized violence through the fire and the sword but also through hearts and minds. For its content is defined by the combined action of the military-industrial complex and the hegemonic cultural centers of the West, all of them founded on the advanced levels of development attained by monopoly and finance capital.”[16]

Western feminists, therefore, are situated within a global system. In other words, the way the “third world” has been constructed[17] forms the context of any scholarship on women in said third world. The lack of awareness of this, as well as the lack of self-reflexivity has meant that scholars within the field have often reproduced imperial notions in their work on women in non-Western contexts or marginalized women with Western contexts themselves.

Black American feminists were the first to argue that mainstream feminism did not, and could not, represent their experiences by only taking gender into account as the most important variable and thus constituting “woman” as a singular category apriori. They insisted that their realities were far more complex than this: they were women; but they were also black, poor/rich, urban/rural, educated/uneducated, and so on.[18] All of these different aspects of their identities combined in order to create their realities. At first, the “triple oppression” notion was created, which argued that Black women suffer from three different oppressions: class, race, and gender.[19] This later became the holy triad of feminist studies: race-gender-class. Intersectionality was later to add other identities such as sexuality, disability, and so on. This was to take apart the notion of a universal woman, and bring to the forefront the idea that “woman” is a contested notion with vastly different experiences and subjectivities.[20] For this reason, it is problematic to speak of a “universal feminism” or a “universal woman.”

Intersectionality would later become widespread among feminist scholars who were working from a post-modernist or post-structuralist perspective. What Black, lesbian (and later queer), and Marxist feminists did was to address the “most central theoretical and normative concern within feminist scholarship: namely, the acknowledgment of differences among women. This is because it touches on the most pressing problem facing contemporary feminism: the long and painful legacy of its exclusions. This legacy of exclusion has been articulated particularly well by scholars like Kimberlé Crenshaw, who pointed out that feminist theory remains white, and therefore its potential to include non-privileged women remains unrealized.[21]

The discursive construction of third world women as homogenous and disempowered is similar to the construction of religious women as uniformly and automatically oppressed or suffering from false consciousness. Religious women are thus produced as a homogenous bloc who cannot or will not see the inherent patriarchy in religion. When it comes to Muslim women, this is amplified due to the already-prevalent construction of third world women (of which Muslim women are assumed to belong to) as oppressed and victimized. This construction serves to hide the specificities of each woman’s lived reality and instead centers the debate on false consciousness.

Agency, autonomy, and subjectivity

Framing the debate around religion in terms of “choices” made by women or forced on women already reveals a liberal ontology where agency—the free exercise of behaviour—becomes the signifier of female emancipation. Similarly, framing the debate around “rights” granted to women by religion or “rights” taken away from women by religion also reveals a liberal ontology. In other words, arguing whether religions are patriarchal based on the types of “rights” women have reproduces an approach to feminism that assumes an individualistic premise, which is a key part of the secular metanarrative that informs feminist scholarship today, which I will discuss below. The idea of a higher being that transcends the individual is already a transgression of the secular and liberal worldview in which individual autonomy is central.

Related to the question of agency is that of autonomy, defined as exercising choice, satisfying individual preferences, and the capacity for rational self-government.[22] Agency and autonomy are defined in relation to external powers that attempt to stifle individualism and create relationships of dependency. As pointed out by Phyllis Mack, feminism has spent a lot of time discussing agency while taking certain assumptions embedded within the concept for granted.

This focus on agency and autonomy stems from the metanarrative of secularisation.[23] According to this narrative, religious women are seen as possessing no agency, in contradistinction to secular society, “which locates religious authority and practice outside the spheres of politics or the marketplace, allows for domains of free, autonomous behaviour.” [24]

Related to this is the problematic creation of a binary between what is secular and what is spiritual. This has emerged in particular due to assumptions about modernity and progress, which state that individuals move from a state of religiosity towards a state of secularity, thus evoking a linear progression of time. Not only does this create a binary between the secular and the spiritual, it neglects the fact that many religious movements are profoundly modern.

A key tension within these debates over agency and religion is the blanket depiction of religion as oppressive, which raises the pertinent issue of subjectivity. Scholars have pointed out that many women choose to submit themselves to a higher power, and do not interpret this as a form of oppression. In Mack’s study of Quaker women, she reflects that attempts by women to displace social norms were done from a position of obedience rather than a position of will. This has been echoed by Saba Mahmood in her study of Islamist women in Cairo, who effectively challenged social norms as an act of obedience to God. This obedience, however, was to a transcendental power, not men or patriarchal systems. Moreover, this obedience is conceptualized as voluntary: disciplinary practices of religious people can often show both how one becomes subjected to relations of power but also creates space within those relations for the exercise of agency,[25] a concept Foucault discussed by stating that the same conditions that damage can also lead to resistance or transcendence.[26]

Other authors have worked on the agency and autonomy of Muslim women by centering processes of re-interpretation and contextualization of the Islamic texts. Asma Barlas discusses questions of religious knowledge and religious authority to show how patriarchy has been read into the Qur’an and argues that the Qur’an supports complete gender equality.[27] Judith Tucker’s work has tried to understand how Islamic scholars have interpreted issues related to women and gender roles over time. Tucker argues that Islamic law has been more fluid and flexible than is often assumed, and that women’s concerns and needs often influenced fatwas given by scholars.[28] Kecia Ali’s book, Sexual Ethics in Islam, explores what makes an act or belief ethical in the eyes of God. Ali touches on very sensitive topics and uses the Qur’an, Hadith and jurisprudence to answer questions that have long been the purveyor of men.[29] Although not all of these authors consider themselves Islamic feminists, their work has been central to challenging male authority and interpretative privilege in Islam, and re-centering women’s autonomy. Tucker demonstrates that women’s needs and concerns often shaped Islamic law; Barlas argues that patriarchy has been read into the Qur’an and thus distorted the text itself; and Ali shows that a more complex reading of the Islamic sources reveals very different interpretations of key verses. Thus they all contribute to scholarship that has female agency at its core, as have numerous other scholars working on gender and Islam.[30]

Gender within Islamist movements has also been studied. Nilufer Göle and Barbara Pusch have both written about the phenomenon of feminism being articulated by women within the Islamist movement in Turkey, and argues that the structures within Islamism that reproduce gender inequality are making these women question issues of gender in Islam (as opposed to leaving Islam).[31] Göle argues that we can speak of a post-Islamist stage where Islamism is losing its relevance but at the same time permeating social and cultural life; and it is this space within which Islamic feminism is growing.[32]

Despite this, women working from within Islamic movements or interpretations often have the effect of further reproducing patriarchal norms. Mahmood has pointed out that the women she worked with in Cairo—part of the “Islamic revival movement”—chose to be part of structures that view women as unequal to men. This raises important questions about choice feminism, which has come to dominate critiques of mainstream Western feminism. Portraying feminism as the “freedom to choose” not only (again) reproduces notions of agency as central to feminism, but also raises questions about what to do when women choose to be part of structures that view men as superior and thus reproduce forms of gender inequality. More importantly, such an argument assumes that “choices” exist and can be made outside of power relations. Choices are never “free” in the sense that they are never made outside of power structures or hegemonic systems and ideals. Nevertheless, it is clear that certain “choices” have been designated as feminist of emancipatory while others have been designated as oppressive. Following this, women who make “choices” that are seen as oppressive are suffering from false consciousness and thus have not reached the stage of liberation other women have reached—again reproducing the linear view of time where progress is measured as a continuum, with Western women at the top. Moreover, although beyond the scope of this article, it is pertinent to note that the way certain choices have been designated as emancipatory and others as oppressive is itself enmeshed within power relations stemming from both (various forms of) patriarchy and Western mainstream feminism.

One way to reconcile[33] agency with religion is to reconceptualize the concept of agency itself. Women who use religion to displace social norms reflect a capacity for action, and demonstrate a concept of agency used by Judith Butler among others.[34] In this perspective, agency and autonomy can be found where there are challenges to power. Thus an attempt by religious women to challenge social norms reflects an act of agency, not insubordination. However, a reconceptualization of agency such as this one still reproduces agency as central to these debates, and agency remains a strongly liberal concept. Mahmood has attempted to move past both emancipation and agency as they continue to produce a teleology of emancipation that portrays women as either struggling, resisting, or subverting—but never active.

Choice, the homogenization of religion, and the re-interpretation of texts

A key issue that emerges from the debates outlined above is that of choice: put simply, who defines which choices fall within the parameters of feminism and which do not? However, once one accepts the premise that socialization constructs the choices that are available and acceptable, as well as ideas of what is emancipatory and what is oppressive, then it follows that these can be deconstructed, particularly in terms of unpacking the power relations they are linked to. This complicates the question of choice as well as of definition.

Defining the contours of what is feminist and what is not (or what is patriarchal and what is not), a process of essentialization and homogenization often takes place. These processes of representing entire cultures as homogenous, static, and essentialized is a classic feature of Orientalism, and has been reproduced in much Western mainstream feminist literature on religion, especially with regards to Islam. The implicit or explicit assumption that “Islam is patriarchal” not only assumes that there is an “Islam” but that patriarchy has already been pre-defined—but by whom? Many discussions that revolve around patriarchy and religion assume an essentialized version of Islam that simply does not exist in the lived realities of Muslim women. As soon as a text interacts with its reader or listener, the outcome is an interpretation that will differ from other interpretations. While the boundaries of interpretation may be somewhat defined by scholarly consensus—among other sources of authority—the content itself cannot be said to constitute a homogenous “Islam” that can then be labelled as patriarchal.

While academia is only part of the problem in portraying Muslim women as oppressed by religion (feminist activism often does the same), it is notable that feminist academics have also had problems approaching the religious women from a perspective that does not minimize their agency. Saba Mahmood has commented on how various feminist historians, for example, treat women within religious institutions as needing to be reformed or modernized.[35] Dipesh Chakrabarty proposes that there needs to be a form of history that abandons its secular epistemology by

“Rendering the claims to divine agency visible and plausible. This allows an academic historian to both engage the hegemonic terms of the discipline of secular history constructively and to expose the violence this narrative commits against life world and imaginaries that are not encompassable within a secular framework.”[36]

Islam has long played a central role in feminist debates, and has consistently been defined as being outside of the parameters set by Western mainstream feminism and thus as intrinsically patriarchal. This does not negate the fact, however, that to many women Islam forms a central aspect of their lives and their lived experiences. While religion itself is a highly contested term, there is little doubt that to many it provides a spiritual framework with which to view and experience the world. This spirituality serves as a counter-point in a world in which rationality is valued above all other systems of meaning—another expression of the metanarrative of secularising.

Islamic feminism constitutes a field that can be broadly defined as an attempt to exercise power over knowledge production and meaning making within Islam. This movement has flourished in several places, particularly Iran,[37] Morocco,[38] and the United States[39]. Scholars within this field are attempting to dismantle misogynist interpretations of Islam through different interpretative methodologies. Fatima Mernissi in particular has been important in this process, as she has argued that many popular Hadith which have been used to support gender inequality in Islam are actually false. Importantly, she makes this argument using traditional Islamic methodology—the same methodology used by men who have consistently propagated these same Hadith.[40]

Religious texts constitute the main battleground on which many of these debates take place, whereby these texts are constituted as either inherently patriarchal or are conceptualized as needing re-interpretation that would allow for feminist readings. The focus on patriarchal interpretations of the Qur’an and Hadith tend to center men as interpretative authorities and ignore movements that call for more inclusive or feminist readings of these texts. The argument is that religion is patriarchal regardless of interpretation, even though every act of understanding is an act of interpretation. Muslim women who write about feminism and Islam have raised questions about the monopoly on interpretation. Riffat Hassan writes:

“Men have taken on the task of defining the ontological, theoretical, sociological and eschatological status of Muslim women.”[41]

Hassan raises the important point that as long as women are defined as theologically inferior, the battle for sociological, political or economic rights will not go very far. For believers, the theological definition of human equality and the equality of men and women’s souls is as important as other aspects of gender equality.[42] Hassan argues that a return to the Qur’an would allow for the theological equality of Muslim men and women to emerge. Thus we see that even Islamic feminists use the religious texts as the grounds for their argument about patriarchy and Islam. In other words, the Qur’an is post-patriarchal and thus a return to it would render Islam post-patriarchal, but only if this return is predicated on different interpretative practices. It is useful to note that this is not necessarily about women re-interpreting the texts, since women are just as capable of reproducing patriarchal interpretations as men. Rather it is a question of the approaches women and men use in interpretation. Many scholars who focus on feminism and Islam favour historicizing as a key approach in re-interpretation, as it contextualizes certain practices and thus renders them as inapplicable today.

While some scholars within feminism engage with these re-interpretations and then reject them as insufficient in creating a new framework of understanding,[43] other scholars simply refrain from engagement at all. This lack of engagement is what is problematic, and it frames the attempts to re-interpret Islam by Muslims as further proof of false consciousness. This stance is contradictory coming from movements that claim to take women and their experiences seriously.

There are two assumptions at play here. The first is that women are always passive, and in rare instances when they are not, they are resisting. Thus attempts to re-interpret religious texts will always fall into one of these narratives. This creates a binary view of action that is difficult to overcome. It situates women within two separate realms of action that go on to define any action taken by these women. In effect, if they are passive and accepting, they are oppressed; whereas if they are resisting—although it is seen as a more ‘autonomous’ act—they are still responding or reacting to a specific audience and narrative. In other words, it is reactionary. Who are they resisting? Who are they proving a point to? It is simply another relation of power, whereby women are constituting the system they are said to be resisting by resisting it.

The second assumption is that religion and religious texts are seen as the domains of men: thus in effect much of mainstream feminist discourse reifies the precise point many Islamic feminists are trying to disprove: that religious texts belong to men.

To conclude this section, I want to reiterate that the focus of my critique is on the decision on the part of many feminists to not engage with scholars who attempt to represent religion as more than simply inherently patriarchal. The Islamic feminist project can be seen as an important attempt to challenge knowledge production and meaning making within a confined space. Traditional male interpretations have dominated for centuries, thus managing to construct “Islamic ideals” that have delineated the borders of what Muslim femininity is. Simply the act of re-interpretation is a challenge to this, and constitutes an attempt to imagine and construct a different reality, which is already an exercise of power.

“A feminist critique of religion stresses the dismantling of religious legitimization for certain political and cultural practices; it critically analyses the power structures of religious communities; it reminds us that there is no Christianity or Islam but different forms and interpretations; and that the determinant role of religion in society should be questioned.”[44]

In the next section I want to suggest that a way out of these predicaments is by focusing less on essentialized notions of feminism and religion, and more on the lived realities of women who are religious. By centering experience, feminism can move away from the problematic of definition (which by extension is always a process of exclusion) and try to explore the option of multiple feminisms. Intersectionality is one way of theorizing such a move.

Intersectionality and its limits

The theory of intersectionality is a relatively new theoretical approach to doing research in the social sciences. First conceptualized by feminists of colour, it has now been adopted by other disciplines such as sociology, race studies and ethnography. The context in which intersectionality arose is extremely important in trying to understand the theory itself. Soon after the spread of first wave feminism in America & Europe, critiques began to surface from women who felt excluded by the discourse being used by first wave feminists. Above all, the claim to represent women universally was problematized by women who felt that their experiences were very different from the average white Western middle-class woman whom the first wave feminist movement was largely comprised of.

Epistemologically, intersectionality falls within post-modernism and post-structuralism, which both constitute powerful critiques of modernism and positivism. Modernism is seen as an “arrogant metanarrative, a universal story that claims to be superior to other stories of what it means to be human—a story capable of evaluating all other stories.”[45] Post-modernism argues that grand narratives are to be rejected, and multiple perspectives should form part of any research project. As mentioned previously, grand narratives, universalizing tendencies and the assumption that a researcher can be objective have all been important aspects of Western mainstream feminism. Post-structuralism values judgement from below, as opposed to the structures that disguise the exercise of power from above.[46]

Intersectionality arose as a direct response to the exclusionary nature of much of mainstream feminism. Thus its main accomplishment has been to be more inclusive of varying experiences, realities and identities, as well as to become more aware of the way power functions in order to exclude/include. Intersectionality functioned as a more complex methodology where different sources of oppression were looked at simultaneously, and understood as influencing one another in very complex ways.

Aside from Black feminists, other groups of feminists such as Marxist, lesbian, and post-colonial feminists were also analysing the relationships between various systems of oppression (such as capitalism, sexuality, nationalism) and gender. European and post-colonial feminists, for example, were doing so by developing feminist standpoint theory.[47] Standpoint theory emphasized that research should be done from the perspective of the marginalized, as their view of society is more comprehensive. Women’s experiences should therefore lay the grounds for feminist knowledge.[48]  The term intersectionality itself was coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw, an African-American legal scholar who was part of the discipline of critical race studies in the 1980s, which aimed at unpacking the supposed neutrality and objectivity of the law.[49] Crenshaw wanted to show how the single-axis framework often used by feminists should be replaced by intersectionality, which could better demonstrate the ways in which race and gender interact.[50] In effect, intersectionality represents a means of looking at multiple layers of identities in order to analyse how they interact with one another. The issue of power is a recurrent one, as is the critique of the idea that gender should have primacy in feminist analyses.

Intersectionality thus allows for a complex analysis of people’s lived experiences that takes into consideration not only various marginalizations but analyses how these marginalizations and positionalities intersect in order to create unique situations. It is a process of complicating research through addressing the way multiple positionalities intersect with one another. Importantly, it represents fluid, constantly expanding theoretical notions. As more scholars engage with it, more intersectionalities emerge. The example of masculinities is illustrative of how intersectionality has moved past the classic race/gender/class configuration and has adopted many other positionalities that are often neglected such as masculinity, disability, age, sexuality, transnationality and so on.

While there has been much intersectional research since Crenshaw’s ground-breaking article, little has been done on the topic of religion and feminism from an intersectional perspective. On the one hand, there is the risk that intersectional approaches could still reproduce the assumptions present in much of mainstream feminism. On the other hand, I argue that intersectionality as an approach has the ability to overcome this bias. The aim of intersectionality is to listen to the voices of women and men on their own terms, in order to piece together narratives and unpack experiences that can help in understanding social life. The emphasis is thus on the voices of those being listened to, not on pre-set categories of research or pre-set assumptions. This provides space within which religious women can speak and not be confined to certain narratives. Intersectional research would allow religious experiences to be part of the narrative, because those speaking are setting the narrative. In other words, personal narratives are central, and this makes the subject central to the story. This is not to say that researchers employing an intersectional approach will not have pre-set assumptions—we all do. But intersectionality forces researchers to confront, rather than disguise or explain away, these assumptions.

While intersectionality has been ground breaking for feminist research, there are numerous points of critique that need to be highlighted. Critiques towards intersectionality have highlighted several issues, ranging from the fact that highlighting the “marginalized” seems to reproduce knowledge that claims to know and represent the “Other” and that becomes part of the industry of knowledge-production; to Judith Butler’s point that the ‘etc.’ that follows at the end of lists of social categories signals an “embarrassed admission of exhaustion” as well as an “illimitable process of signification.”[51] This can be somewhat avoided by using the concept of “master categories” and the recognition that in specific situations, certain social divisions are more important than others.[52] However in doing this it is important to understand that different positionalities have different logics and operate at different levels.[53]Another critique that has been levelled against intersectionality is that it does not problematize the use of categories, thus viewing humans are made up of various categorical and “innate” aspects that, when studied together using an intersectional approach, can expose the human being in question.

“A critique of intersectionality that takes the category as ontologically problematic or certain is the stage for the entrance of a transcendent subject or subjects.”[54]

The reliance on categories can even lead to intersectionality being portrayed as positivist, as the category is supposed to lead to “authentic” knowledge about the experiences of marginalized women.[55] Scholars such as Wolf have argued that instead of taking categories as names of things, we should instead understand them as “bundles of relationships and place them back into the filed from which they were abstracted.”[56] Others have argued that floating categories can be replaced by signifiers that are grounded in the lives of specific women, and that representations should never be seen as showing us the “essence” of a person.[57] Crenshaw has responded to these critiques by pointing out that categories can sometimes be empowering, and by arguing that even if categories are socially constructed, it does not negate the real effects they have on the lives of people.[58]

Conclusion

The metanarrative of secularising constitutes the assumptions underlying much of mainstream Western feminism, and explains the difficulties the field has had engaging women who are religious, as well as addressing the agency of religious women in non-simplistic terms. While critiques have moved the feminism discipline forward, it remains largely Western and secular. This means that when movements such as Islamic feminism emerge, the response has been to either label them as further proof of false consciousness, or to not engage with them at all. The key tension remains the unwillingness to engage with religious women on their own terms, instead of the apriori assumptions of religious patriarchy that rely on the homogenization of religions.

In order to address the complexity of feminist research, a focus on the lived experiences of women themselves may provide a way forward. Focusing on lived experiences makes intersectionality a useful approach in the study of women and religion. Conceptualizing religion as a positionality may prove a useful way of doing research that does not apriori reject the experiences of religious women as patriarchal. The use of narratives is one methodological approach that can be used to achieve an intersectional analysis. Personal narratives aim to situate the subject within the full network of relationships that define their social locations, but some have pointed out that usually it is only possible to situate them from the partial perspective of the specific social group being studied.[59]

A critical intersectionality-based assessment of the feminist field in general can help in decolonizing the continued Eurocentrism that plagues the field. Until assumptions of what constitutes patriarchy are thoroughly decolonized, feminism will continue to reproduce dynamics and analysis that excludes women who live different realities.

The post Feminist critique and Islamic feminism: the question of intersectionality appeared first on The Postcolonialist.